


Reach Out With Both Hands

by thewolvescalledmehome



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, American Football, Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Sports Injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:27:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 37,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24746818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewolvescalledmehome/pseuds/thewolvescalledmehome
Summary: Football was Jon Snow's life. It was the thing he built his entire life around. It was the only stability he'd ever known.All of that changes after one game. One pass where he lands wrong. All of a sudden he's back in his small hometown with no one to turn to but the Starks.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 360
Kudos: 677





	1. Sansa (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> I have about half of it written I think (but we all know my outlines are generally 3-6 chapters short of what I end up writing) so hopefully my posting will be fairly regular.
> 
> Title is from "Revolve" by Nine Days.  
> Full lyric is:  
> I will continue to revolve around your sun  
> because you are the only one  
> who understands who reached out with both hands

**EIGHT MONTHS AGO**

It was the only game Sansa had ever missed. It was a Sunday evening game, the way all the playoffs were. Except she had a huge interview the next morning and she needed to go to sleep at a reasonable time. They were ahead by two touchdowns at halftime when she went to bed.

She didn’t learn about the second half of the game until after her interview because she’d put her phone on airplane mode. She didn’t want anything to distract her from the interview.

And that definitely would’ve been a distraction.

She knew something was wrong as soon as she turned her notifications back on.

She had missed calls and texts from every member of her family and alerts from every sports news station she’d subscribed to.

One of the banner notifications came in slow enough for her to read.

_SNOW DOWN FOR THE COUNT WITH 3 RD QUARTER INJURY_

And the next one.

_WOLVES LOSE 28-21 TO THE ARBOR_

“Oh no,” she whispered, scrolling through the notifications. “Oh no.”

It took Sansa ten minutes to sort through all of her notifications and alerts to get the whole story.

Jon had gotten the ball in the third quarter and was running for the endzone when he was tackled. Sansa watched the video and winced when he went down, twisting awkwardly to try to keep a handle on the ball. She could hear the crunch through the commentator’s groans. She felt dizzy as they placed Jon on a stretcher and carried him off the field.

It was a multiple knee ligament injury.

It was a career-ending injury.

If she’d had his number, she might have texted him. But she didn’t. She’d never had it.

Instead, she sent a mass text to the people who did—the rest of her family—asking them to pass on the message that she was thinking of him.

She wanted to ask for his number to check in on him. Ask if there was anything she could do. But she had never actually been friends with Jon the way the rest of her siblings had. And she was sure that he had enough of a support system. He wouldn’t need her pestering him. So, she didn’t send him anything.

She did keep all of her sports network notifications and alerts turned on.

Which meant she saw all the updates on his knee and his career.

Including when his contract was dropped five months after his injury.

Jon Snow—the person she’d always known as a football star—no longer played football.


	2. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prologue is waaaayyy shorter than what I normally write, so I'm throwing in the first chapter as well. Chapter 2 should be up Wednesday.

Jon stood in the back in his hometown thinking what a terrible idea this had been. And it wasn’t even his.

It’d been his agent’s—go home, rest up, focus on PT. Unplug from the news and from football. The only reason Jon had agreed was because when Tarly said “go home” he thought he meant to his apartment in the city, not his hometown.

The one he left right after he graduated high school and never returned to.

It wasn’t like he had family here, or a childhood home.

He didn’t even have a place to stay.

Winterfell wasn’t big enough for hotels and there weren’t many people he kept in contact with after he started playing for University of Castle Black.

Jon hadn’t thought this through _at all._

No, this was a terrible, terrible mistake.

Being in the city was better than this.

 _Anything_ was better than this.

This rudderless feeling he’d had since he woke up in the hospital intensified just by being back in town. And there was nothing he could do to mask it like he could in the city.

“Jon Snow?” someone asked, startling him.

Jon turned to see a burly man he probably had known at one point in his life grinning at him.

“The hometown hero returns, huh?”

“Uh, yeah,” he muttered.

“Staying with the Starks?” the man asked.

 _Of course—the Starks_. They would take him in. The way they had so many times throughout his childhood. He hated to ask that of them—to be a burden to them again—but he had no one else.

Jon gave a noncommittal answer though, because he’d dealt with enough reporters and stalkers to make him wary.

“Can I get an autograph? You’re the only reason my wife watches football.”

“Sure.”

Jon signed whatever the guy held out to him—he didn’t care enough to see what it was he was even signing. The sooner he was done the sooner he could disappear back out of society’s gaze. Even the few thousand people of Winterfell was too much for him now.

* * *

Jon stood on the front porch of the Starks’ house; the only place he’d known stability other than the few seasons he’d spent with the Wolves.

He wondered what they’d think when they saw him standing there, clutching his bags and looking like a dejected puppy. The way he’d been years ago, clutching his gear bag and needing a ride to a weekend practice.

It took every ounce of will power in him to ring the doorbell.

This was harder than walking for the first time after his surgery.

Jon was eternally grateful that it was Arya who opened the door because she took one look at him and pulled him into the house.

“You’re back! For how long?”

“Uh. Few weeks?” he shrugged. His mouth refused to form the word _indefinitely._

“Where’re you staying?” she asked and Jon could no longer feel his limbs.

“I was hoping I could stay here?” He felt his shoulders curling up towards his ears, his hands gripping his bags tighter.

Arya’s face dropped and Jon felt so stupid. He should have never assumed that the Starks could just make more room for him. Hadn’t they done enough for him already?

“Oh, if we’d known… Mom and Dad are reno-ing the guest room. They’re turning it into an office.”

The guest room. The one that had been more or less his for his teenaged years.

“Oh. Right.”

“I’ll call Robb. See if he’s got room at his place,” she offered.

It hadn’t even occurred to him that Robb wasn’t living here anymore. That Robb was the same age as him, which meant that he most definitely had a life of his own. Jon didn’t need to impose on him.

He tried to tell Arya as much, but she was already on the phone, shuffling into the kitchen. Jon followed her for something to do.

“No, no. Talk to Jeyne. I’m sure he’ll understand,” he heard her say, and his gut dropped even further. “He has to talk to Jeyne. They have a pullout, but she’s very pregnant right now and very on edge. All the time. Actually, you might not want to stay there. I wouldn’t.”

Arya grinned at him, like they were in on the same joke, but Jon felt like the wind had been knocked out of him.

Robb had married Jeyne. He’d forgotten about that. He’d gotten the invite but they had a game on the road the same weekend and he hadn’t been able to make the wedding. And now they were expecting.

It was too much.

Jon felt like he missed too much.

“What’s everyone else up to?” he asked, because getting it all in one fell swoop would hurt less. Probably.

Arya shrugged.

“I’m still here, working my way through college. Bran and Rickon too. Robb and Jeyne live on the other side of town. Sansa’s got a house in the neighborhood across the street.”

At least they all hadn’t up and grown up on him completely, he thought. Three of the five Starks were still living at home.

“Actually, Sansa’s got plenty of space. Let me call her.”

“Arya, _no_ —” he started, but he could hear the other line ringing already.

As much as staying on Robb’s pullout with him and his pregnant wife made him feel uncomfortable, staying with Sansa was worse. So much worse.

She was the last Stark he wanted to impose on.

This was absolutely a mistake.

He was going to murder his agent.

“A few weeks, he said. Yeah, that’s what I thought too. Of course. Yep. Okay. Thanks,” Arya hung up and Jon’s whole body _itched_ with his need to be back in the city. Itched for the anonymity. The independence. The illusion of having a place that was _his._ A place he belonged.

“What’d she say?” he asked, even though he didn’t want to know. Either way, he wasn’t going to like the answer. If she said he could stay with her, he was going to be stuck with Sansa until he got a place of his own. If she said no, he had nowhere else to go.

He didn’t know which one made him more uncomfortable—having to rely on someone or more or less being homeless.

“She said sure. Her basement’s completely furnished and has a private exit, so it’s basically like an apartment.”

He wasn’t sure it was relief he felt or shock.

Sansa had always kept her distance when they were growing up. She never accepted him the way the rest of the Starks did. He never thought she’d be willing to give him a place to crash this way.

“She really said it was okay?”

“Yeah. She said to give her a few hours to clean up and then I could drive you over.”

A part of him was disappointed. If Sansa had said no, he could’ve called Tarly and told him he had no place to stay and had to go back to the city. And he would’ve held up his end of the bargain. He came home. Tarly never said for how long.

But he’d never said because they both knew.

It was the same as the doctor said about him not being able to play.

_Indefinitely._


	3. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full discloser, I thought today was Wednesday until about a half hour ago.

Sansa had been on her way home when Arya’s name popped up on her display.

“Jon’s back,” Arya greeted.

“What?”

Sansa nearly swerved. They had all thought he might come back when his contract was dropped, but that was almost three months ago. She knew Arya, Ned, and Robb had heard from him occasionally, but she didn’t remember anyone mentioning that he was coming back.

“Where’s he staying?”

“That’s what I was calling about. With the guest room being reno-ed and Jeyne being pregnant…”

“How long is he staying?”

Sansa had plenty of space. She’d bought the house when it foreclosed, when she thought she needed a house. When she thought she’d be able to fill it.

“A few weeks, he said.”

“He could stay in my basement,” she shrugged. For a while, she thought she and Jeyne Poole might be housemates, when they both graduated. Then she thought the man she started seeing right out of college might move in, but then she got the position as project manager and he didn’t.

It would be nice to have someone in the house. A roommate of sorts.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too.”

“I’m about twenty minutes out yet. Give me a few hours to get home and changed and clean up a bit, then you can bring him over?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll text you when I’m done?”

“Yep.”

Sansa took a deep breath after hanging up. Jon Snow would be living in her basement for a few weeks. Okay. She could do this. She flexed her hands on the wheel. She could do this.

* * *

Sansa had just finished putting fresh sheets on the bed in her basement when she heard the basement door open.

“Sansa?” Arya called.

She was grateful that she was in the bedroom when they came in. That way she could school her features into something neutral.

Something that didn’t give away how she felt about Jon more or less moving into her basement.

“In here!” she called back, fluffing the pillows.

Sansa hadn’t seen Jon in person in years. She’d only seen him from her TV screen. She hadn’t realized how much muscle he’d put on—or that she was taller than him now.

The last time they’d seen each other, Jon had been eighteen and she’d just started high school.

They’d been kids then.

She hadn’t realized that a _man_ would be moving into her basement.

Jon stared at the room, and she hoped it was okay. She’d read somewhere that he’d bought a penthouse apartment when he signed his first contact with the Wolves.

Her basement definitely was nowhere close to a penthouse.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” Jon said, voice just as quiet as she remembered.

“Yeah, no problem. Let me give you the tour.”

She led him and Arya around the basement, pointing out the full bath, the laundry, and closet she spent the last half hour converting to something resembling a pantry. The only thing the basement was missing was a kitchen. Though she supposed she could bring her microwave and small fridge down. She had the fridge from her time in the dorms, and she never really used her microwave.

She told Jon as much and he shuffled, looking more awkward than she remembered.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“It’s fine,” she shrugged. “I’ll call Robb in the morning to help with the mini fridge.”

“I’m going to grab my bags.”

Sansa watched him turn and leave.

“Is it as bad as it seems?” she whispered to Arya.

“I think so.”

“What do we do?”

“No idea. Robb’s supposed to call later though. I’ll loop you in when I know.”

“Okay.”

Sansa kept herself out of the way while Arya helped Jon haul in a few of his bags. She had no idea if she was supposed to offer to help or head back upstairs.

Once Jon brought his last bag into the bedroom, Sansa definitely felt like she wasn’t needed.

“Here’s a spare key. I have a grocery list on the fridge upstairs, if you want to add anything to it. Let me know if you need anything,” she said, handing him the key. Her fingers grazed his palm and the roughness of his skin sent a jolt through her.

“I’ll help you unpack,” Arya offered.

Sansa went back upstairs then, hoping they hadn’t noticed her flush.

* * *

Sansa thought at some point Jon might come up for food—it’d been around dinner time when Arya had dropped him off, but he didn’t. She supposed he probably ate at her parents’ house. But he’d have to come up for breakfast in the morning, right?

Wrong.

Sansa spent the better half of the morning in her kitchen, thinking Jon would eventually show up for coffee at least, but she didn’t see him at all.

She thought about going down to check on him, but she didn’t want to invade or overstep. He just needed a place to stay and she had the space. It didn’t mean anything. She didn’t need to take care of him.

Even so, she called Robb to move the mini fridge from her garage to her basement. And if she might’ve mentioned to make sure that Jon was okay when he did that, who would it hurt?

She also had Robb move the microwave down for him. She didn’t want him to think she would just barge into his space whenever she felt like it.

“How is he?” she asked when Robb came back up after moving both appliances down.

Robb shrugged.

“Didn’t talk to him. He was in the shower.”

“You didn’t stick around? Have you talked to him yet?”

“No. He’ll talk when he’s ready.”

Sansa rolled her eyes.

“So, you didn’t check in on him?”

“He’s a grown man. He doesn’t need people constantly checking in on him.”

“How do you know?” she asked. This time Robb rolled his eyes.

“Cause we’ve been best friends since childhood?”

Sansa wanted to point out that for being best friends, they’d rarely spoken since Jon went to UCB and Robb went to University of the Twins, but she didn’t. She knew Robb would say something about it being different for guys.

“He’s fine, Sansa. He just needs some time away, I’m sure.”

Sansa guessed if anyone knew, it would be Robb. There was a reason he never played football after U of T. A reason he came home a semester shy of graduating.

“Okay,” she relented. “But if I don’t see him for a week, I’m allowed to be worried, right?”

Robb shrugged.

“Maybe. If none of us hear from him for a week, sure.”

That seemed like far too long to wait. She definitely would start worrying before that.

“He just need time alone, Sansa, okay?”

“Yep. Sure.”

“And thanks for letting him stay. I think Jeyne would’ve agreed to it because she felt bad, but it would’ve been hell after two days.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Call me if you have any _real_ concerns.”

She wanted to ask what qualified as a _real concern_ but she kept her mouth shut. She knew Robb would just roll his eyes again.

He’d also probably tease her about the crush she’d harbored on Jon when they were young, but she’d rather that not be brought up. She was impressed Arya hadn’t mentioned it yesterday.

Hopefully, everyone had forgotten about it. She’d been in middle school. It was dumb.

And really, she only crushed on him so hard because he was safe. He was in high school. There was no way anything would happen there, which meant there would be no way for her heart to get broken.

It was like a celebrity crush—completely safe and really just a place to focus her romantic daydreams.

It hadn’t meant anything.

And she’d definitely gotten over it years ago. It had only lasted for her middle school years. Everyone had awkward crushes in middle school. They never lasted into adulthood. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be up Sunday or Monday depending on how well I can read a calendar


	4. Jon

Jon had forgotten how little there was to do in Winterfell.

In the city, he forced himself out because otherwise the press ran a bunch of stories about him being depressed since being released from the team. For some reason, they continued to follow him even after he stopped playing football.

Here, he didn’t have the same drive.

After a fitful night of sleep, Jon finally pushed himself to get out of bed and shower.

He planned on laying low. He didn’t want Sansa to remember that he was staying in her basement. He most definitely was not going to go up and put groceries on her list like she suggested.

No, the less he saw of her—of anyone—the better.

* * *

Jon waited until Monday to leave the basement. He called in takeout for every other meal, telling the delivery person to come around to the basement door.

The only problem was that they didn’t allow beer with the takeout, which was why he hauled his ass out of the basement and to the grocery store while Sansa was at work.

He thought it would be a simple errand. In and out. All he needed were some staples so he didn’t have to order takeout for every single meal.

Jon had been the grocery store for no more than fifteen minutes—he’d gotten beer, cereal, and milk when someone approached his cart.

“Are you Jon Snow?” they asked.

 _No_ , he wanted to say. _I get that a lot._ He wanted to lie.

He didn’t want to _be_ Jon Snow.

Jon opened his mouth to respond, knowing the truth would come out, but instead he didn’t. He white knuckled his cart and strode for the check-out.

He didn’t care if he was viewed as rude. His image didn’t matter anymore.

Nothing did.

Jon pulled the brim of his cap low over his eyes while being rung up, hoping he wouldn’t be recognized again. It had been his least favorite part of playing football, and now that he wasn’t even doing that, he didn’t understand why this was the one thing that stuck.

He’d forced himself to tolerate it when it meant something. When he was getting recognized for his skill on the field and not the fact that he had a fucked-up knee. Or that he was the reason the Wolves had been so close to the Superbowl for the first time in years. Or that he was the reason they didn’t make it past that damn playoff game.

Now he couldn’t bear to put up with it.

He was grateful that even though the cashier’s gaze lingered on his ID, she didn’t comment. She passed it back and told him to enjoy his day.

* * *

Jon did take one piece of Tarly’s advice. He unplugged from news and football. His phone died after the first twelve hours of being in Sansa’s basement, and he didn’t bother to figure out where he’d packed his charger. He left it dead.

He did still keep his prepaid phone charged. No one besides Tarly had the number for it and it didn’t have internet, so its only use was calling in his takeout.

Instead, he spent the time maintaining a buzz and watching shitty superhero movies on cable.

After eating clean, tracking his protein intake, and hitting the gym nearly every day since he was in high school, the lack of routine and greasy food he was eating was almost a relief. It was a clean break between Jon Snow, the football star and Jon Snow, the rudderless mess.

He supposed Sansa probably saw—if she was paying attention—that he was ordering in every night. But why should she care? Why should he care if she noticed? He had a lot of takeout to make up for.

If he’d been in his own apartment, he probably would’ve been walking around naked and drunk instead of buzzed, but he’d only bought two cases of beer and he wanted to at least try to make it last. He didn’t want to risk going back to the grocery store.

He didn’t want to risk going _outside_.

Winterfell was small—very small—and even before he was a pro football player, everyone in town knew who he was. Just for a very different reason.

Jon wasn’t sure which was worse—everyone feeling sorry for him coming home with his tail tucked between his legs or the reason everyone knew who he was as a child.

Either way, everyone looked at him with pity and concern.

At least in the city there were people who still thought he might play again. Every time he was stopped in the street, it was _taking the season off, huh_? Or _we’ll get those rings next time._ They all didn’t realize his contract getting dropped was the final nail in the coffin. Proof he was never going to play again.

And the women in the city didn’t look at him with pity. They saw him as wounded, tortured. In need of rescuing, fixing. They looked at him with determination.

He’d admit that in the beginning, he let them try. Back before his contract was dropped. Back when he had hope. And for a while, it helped. It felt good. It made him still feel like himself, at least. Like the star everyone had thought he was. He still felt like someone.

Until the endless string of mornings waking up to someone who could rattle off his stats but nothing else about him started to feel hollow. And the numbness came.

And Tarly sent him North.

* * *

After nearly a week of takeout and shitty superhero movies and a fairly consistent buzz, Jon realized how much better the city had been. Even with the numbness and the hollow nights spent with just another warm body—being someone’s warm body—it was better than being completely and utterly alone with his thoughts at all times.

It also made him realize that he probably should’ve grabbed a bottle or two of something stronger than beer.

* * *

Jon was half drunk on the sofa in front of the coffee table that was littered with yesterday’s empty cartons of takeout when he heard a knock.

At first, he thought it was coming from upstairs—that it was Sansa’s door. A fleeting thought passed his head, wondering if she was getting picked up for a date.

Then he realized how close the knocking was.

Jon shot up, scrambling to pull something over his naked chest.

Sansa was standing at the base of the stairs, her arms full of Tupperware.

“Sorry—I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said, voice soft. “I would’ve called, but I don’t have your number.”

 _Wouldn’t have mattered—it’s still dead_ , he almost said, but he couldn’t. His mouth wasn’t working.

“I just… I have a busy work week this week, so I prepped all my meals, and I made too much. I thought I’d bring it down in case you wanted some?”

Jon stared at her, eyeing the Tupperware.

It was after her face burned pink that Jon realized he’d waited too long to respond.

“Yeah, thanks,” he mumbled at last.

He watched as she almost tiptoed over to the mini fridge, wondering what she thought as she opened it, showing nothing more than a half-gallon of milk and enough beer to get him through the upcoming weekend.

He thought she might say something about it, but she didn’t.

Jon studied the way she stacked the containers, realizing just how grown up she was.

The last time he’d seen her, the last time he’d been in Winterfell, she’d been an awkward teenager. She was just starting high school. She’d had braces still.

She’d been gangly then, not willowy. Not graceful.

Her hair, that burning auburn, he thought was the only thing that hadn’t changed about her.

“I left my number on the fridge, if you need anything,” she said, jarring him from where he’d been staring. At her.

“Thanks.”

He tried to look somewhere else—anywhere other than her—but his eyes just kept drifting back to her.

“Do… Do you need anything?”

_A bottle of bourbon._

_A working knee._

_A good night’s sleep._

_My life back._

_To not be Jon Snow anymore._

“I’m good.”

“Okay.”

She turned for the stairs and went up quietly, not questioning whether or not he actually needed anything. Not pushing.

The women in the city might’ve pushed. They might’ve offered themselves up to fill whatever needs he had.

Jon watched her shadow disappear before collapsing back on the couch, wondering what the hell he was doing on Sansa Stark’s couch.

* * *

It was several hours later that Jon finally forced himself off the couch to make something to eat. He’d spent at least half that time debating whether he should eat some of whatever Sansa had brought down, or if he should order in another meal.

After scrolling through the numbers of nearby restaurants he had saved in his phone, he broke and headed for the mini fridge, curious to see what Sansa had made.

Inside, he found several containers of garden salads, a couple of pasta dishes, some chicken, and some stew or soup or something.

To his surprise, he saw that she’d left him some silverware and microwave-safe dishes.

He pulled out one of the containers of what he thought must be soup, after having opened it, poured it in the bowl, and stuck it in the microwave.

While he waited for it to heat, he popped open a beer, drinking the neck’s worth before the microwave beeped.

Jon brought his bowl and beer back over to the couch, but paused before sitting down.

The coffee table was still covered with the old containers and empty bottles. Before now, it hadn’t bothered him, but since Sansa had come down, the table embarrassed him.

It wasn’t like the rest of the basement was a mess, but this suddenly made him itch.

He stacked the Styrofoam boxes and unused napkins, gathering the bottles and deposited them in the overflowing garbage and recycling bins Sansa had brought down at some point. He hadn’t seen her do it.

He supposed he should ask when garbage went out, but he could do that later. Or he could text her, he realized, looking at the scrap of paper she’d stuck to the fridge. But that would require charging his phone, so he didn’t do that either.

Clearing off the table was enough for tonight, he decided, sitting back down with the soup.

It was a simple soup and he’d hadn’t microwaved it for long enough—it was just past lukewarm—but it was the best thing he’d had since he came North.

Even before he came North, he’d been either eating at restaurants for PR or eating frozen dinners and cold cut sandwiches because the only things he could cook were chicken breast, beans, and rice.

And since he’d gotten dropped, there was no reason to keep his football player diet.

He hadn’t eaten something that had been homemade, not professionally made, not clean eating, since he signed. Since UCB.

It instantly warmed him—even the parts that had been numb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going to try to keep up with the every other day posting for now. I have 9 chapters done, so I'll stick with that until I reach the point where I write as I post.


	5. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spaced on posting this week so here's two chapters

Sansa stood in her kitchen, watching Jon carry garbage bags out to the bins she’d already put out.

This was why she’d left her number down there the other day. She knew he probably needed some basics—she knew he’d been living on takeout and would eventually have questions. When the garbage would go out, groceries, toilet paper, other supplies.

He hadn’t used it yet, though.

When she told Arya it was okay for Jon to move into her basement, she’d braced herself for seeing more of him. She’d prepared for living with somebody—for having a roommate. That was what she expected it to feel like. What she’d hoped for.

She didn’t expect it to feel like living with a ghost.

Sansa had lived with Jon before, back when he was finishing high school. He’d stayed out of the way back then too—he kept to the guest bedroom for the most part, aside from meals. But he was still around. If they were watching a movie or having a family night, he would join. Sometimes he and Robb would play video games in the basement or run plays in the backyard.

He didn’t sequester himself to his room quite to this extent.

Sansa had thought that at the very least she’d see him for meals, the way she did when he lived with them when they were in high school.

She’d called Robb a few days ago, asking if she could start worrying yet.

He said that Arya was planning on dropping by soon, which to her suggested that she could definitely start worrying.

She’d wanted to ask when Arya was coming over, if she should be there, but she figured Robb would say something like _it’s not an intervention_ and that Arya knew him better anyway.

Which was true.

Sansa had definitely kept her distance when they were young. Initially, it was just because Jon was four years older and they had no common interests. She liked reading, movies, theatre, music—anything with the arts. Jon liked football and video games. There was no overlap. Then, it was because of her crush that she stayed clear of him.

She knew everyone else knew—but that was because Arya had read her diary and told everyone—but Jon never found out. She knew if she hung around with Jon, she’d inevitably do something stupid enough to reveal it. She’d blush at anything back then.

Actually, she still blushed too easily, but at least with foundation it wasn’t as noticeable. She hoped.

Sansa ducked away from the window when Jon came back around the side of the house, hoping he didn’t see her watching him.

In the kitchen, she listened to the basement door opening, closing. The quiet murmur coming from the TV being turned on.

She supposed that meant he didn’t see her.

* * *

Arya came by the next day. She’d been there when Sansa got home from work.

Sansa texted her once she’d seen her car, asking her to come up when she was done talking to Jon.

She went upstairs to change out of her work clothes, figuring Arya probably had gotten there recently. She didn’t expect her sister to appear a few minutes later.

“How is he?” Sansa asked, pulling a hoodie over her tank top.

“Rough.”

Arya looked concern, which made Sansa’s worry spike. Arya getting worried was on par with Robb getting worried.

“He’s a wreck,” Arya admitted quietly. “I don’t think he’s gone outside at all. Or drank anything other than beer.”

“I took down some food a couple days ago. I should’ve brought down some water or juice or something.”

“I doubt he would’ve drank it.”

“What do we do? Robb thinks he’s fine.”

“Yeah, well, Robb isn’t a great judge of healthy coping behavior. He thought he was fine when he came home from U of T.”

Sansa hadn’t thought of that. She’d been in her last semester of high school when Robb had gotten injured. She remembered everybody flying to the Twins to visit him in the hospital. She remembered him being home, but she didn’t remember how he dealt with it. She’d been more focused on spring break, prom, final exams, graduation.

“Did he act like this?”

“Not quite. He stayed in his room a lot, played video games. He was angry a lot of the time. I don’t think he drank as much, but he’d been home.”

“Is Jon angry? Like Robb had been?”

She’d only talked to him the two times—when he moved in and when she brought the food down. Neither time had she thought he seemed angry.

But she didn’t know Jon well enough to read his emotions, and she remembered that he’d always been good at masking what he was feeling.

“I don’t think so,” Arya said, picking at her cuticles. Something she only did when she was nervous. “I think whatever he’s feeling is worse.”

* * *

Arya’s words, the level of concern on her face, haunted Sansa. She’d never seen her sister look like that.

It kept her up that night.

_I think whatever he’s feeling is worse._

She was actively fighting the urge to go downstairs and check on Jon. To ask him if he was okay. If there was anything she could do to help.

She didn’t know what she was supposed to do.

Arya had said she’d sat with Jon and watched part of a movie, drinking a beer. They hadn’t really talked, but she said that Jon had answered all the questions she’d asked.

_Are you eating?_

_Are you showering?_

_Staying away from news outlets?_

_Are you sleeping?_

Arya said he was eating, and showering. He hadn’t charged his phone since he came North, which helped staying away from the news.

Sansa wondered how he was ordering his dinners if that was true, but she didn’t raise that point to Arya.

Arya had always looked up to Jon. Sansa might’ve had a crush on him, but he and Arya had a different kind of bond, Sansa knew. A kinship she’d never understand.

She was the only one Jon probably would be brutally honest with.

His answer to Arya’s last question was the other half of what was keeping Sansa up.

_Are you sleeping?_

Arya said he laughed at that, but he didn’t sound like himself. That was his only answer.

Sansa knew that meant it was bad. That meant he definitely wasn’t sleeping.

She should’ve seen it, she thought. She’d watched him take his trash out the other morning, and didn’t even think about how pale he looked, how worn.

She’d been too busy looking at how his t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, how the fabric clung to his biceps.

Guilt curled in her stomach. He was a mess and she was busy ogling him instead of noticing how much he needed help.

Sansa launched herself out of bed before she could stop herself. She told herself she was just going to the kitchen to get some water. Nothing more.

Except, once she was in the kitchen, she could hear the TV on downstairs.

It was almost one in the morning.

Sansa was halfway to the basement door before she could stop herself.

She couldn’t just go down there.

She couldn’t just say _I heard the TV on and thought I’d come down_.

Her bedroom was on the opposite side of the house. There was no way she’d feasibly be able to hear the TV.

If she was doing this, if she was going down those stairs, she needed a reason. A good one.

Finally, her eyes landed on her laundry basket.

Normally, she would’ve done her laundry over the weekend, when she did the rest of her chores, but she didn’t know how to go down there, how to invade his space. It had taken all of her courage to take the Tupperware down. She couldn’t endure going back down a second time.

But she was actually running low on underwear. She would have to cave and do laundry sooner rather than later.

Why not at one in the morning on a Tuesday night?

For all he knew, this was her normal laundry time.

And she really did need to get her laundry out of the kitchen.

Steeling herself for both the state she might find Jon in and for how absurd she’d look, Sansa hauled her laundry basket into her arms and went down the stairs.

She paused on the final step, because it was dark and maybe he’d fallen asleep watching TV on the couch, and if that was the case, she didn’t want to wake him.

But then she heard the dull thud of a beer bottle landing on the coffee table—the deliberate thud of it being set down.

Sansa knocked gently on the wall then, wanting to keep the idea that this was his space.

Like he had the only other time Sansa came down, he bolted up from the couch. She’d obviously startled him.

“Sorry—did the TV wake you?” he asked. His voice was gruffer than she thought she’d ever heard it.

“No, I…um. I couldn’t sleep and decided to do some laundry. If that’s okay.”

She could just make out his shoulders shrugging over the back of the couch. She was pretty sure he was shirtless again. She should’ve asked Arya if he’d been shirtless when Arya had talked to him, but she knew that question would’ve garnered some eyerolls and a few sarcastic comments.

“Your house,” he muttered after a beat, and Sansa wanted to say something to that. Something to make him feel like not so much a guest, but what could she say? _It’s yours too_? Absolutely not.

Instead she just moved to the laundry room and prepared to dump her basket into the wash.

She didn’t have a plan beyond this. She definitely hadn’t thought this through.

Sansa tried to stall, sorting her laundry into what could be left in the wash until morning and what she actually needed clean. That took almost no time.

She left the rest of her clothes in the basket and tucked it behind the door, hoping Jon wouldn’t accidently see anything embarrassing. Like a lacy bra. Or her period underwear.

When she came back out, she saw Jon was probably halfway through some kind of low budget CGI movie.

He clearly wasn’t sleeping.

“Do you want me to switch it over for you?” he asked, looking back over the couch.

“You don’t have to stay up for it,” she said because she didn’t want to say _no that’s my underwear in there right now and half of it can’t go in the dryer._

He shrugged again.

“I’m probably going to be up for this movie at least.”

She wanted to ask why he wasn’t sleeping. Why he hadn’t been sleeping. If he was actually okay.

But if he didn’t tell Arya, and hadn’t talked to Robb, why in the world would he tell her?

“You’re not sleeping?” she asked, because she had to say _something_.

“Neither are you.”

_Only because I’ve been thinking about you not sleeping. And I couldn’t stop until I checked on you._

“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Same.”

“Are you doing okay down here? You’re comfortable?”

“Yeah.”

“The bed’s fine? You don’t need more pillows or blankets or anything?”

“No, no. That’s—That’s not why…” he trailed off, looking away from her. “Everything’s great.”

“Okay. Good. So, um. Good night then, Jon,” Sansa whispered.

“Night.”


	6. Jon

After a week and a half of keeping himself in the basement, of only interacting with Arya once, all of the delivery people, and Sansa twice—he purposefully stayed in his room or timed his shower with her switching over her laundry—and he felt the walls closing in on him.

Though that might’ve also had to do with the fact he’d run out of superhero movies available on demand.

He had to get out of the basement. He had to talk to somebody.

The numbness that had dissipated when he started eating the food that Sansa had brought him crept back. And it was worse than before.

His loneliness wasn’t this prominent in the city. He had things to distract him. There were people everywhere. People he interacted with on a daily basis. Something that gave the illusion of normalcy.

Now all he had was Sansa’s leftovers, beer, and TV.

He supposed he could call Tarly, but he’d only called his prepaid phone twice since he’d come North, and both conversations had consisted over the same topic: football.

Jon never realized how much he craved human contact—even just a conversation—until now.

Jon had been on his own for most of his life. He’d always had to rely on himself. Not talking to people had been his normal.

Until the Starks.

Until football.

Until his team at UCB.

Until the Wolves.

And now he can’t go back. He didn’t know how; that was somehow scarier than when he was told he’d probably never play again. His entire future, that he’d banked everything on, had drained painfully through his hands. That hadn’t terrified him as much as realizing how much he’d grown to depend on people. A support system.

Jon had to, at the very least, get out of the basement.

Wednesday morning, he decided to go for a jog. He figured most people would be at work, so the chance of being recognized, either for his career or his childhood, was low.

He’d been cleared for non-strenuous exercise a while ago, but he hadn’t really done much. Going to the gym was too hard, what with all of his teammates being there, doing real training, so he’d mostly just done small stuff at home—core, pull ups, free weights—the handful of times he felt motivated.

Going for a jog did mean that he had to dig out some workout clothes from the bag he had failed to unpack, but that wasn’t as hard as lacing up his shoes while knowing he wasn’t going to run his normal route with his normal speed alongside his teammates.

At least the scenery would be different, he figured.

Arya had mentioned that there was a trail that ran from Sansa’s neighborhood into the Starks’ and looped back around. He figured that would probably be better than running on the street. And it would look nothing like where he normally ran.

Jon stalled two steps from the door, debating on whether or not he should grab his headphones.

Listening to his normal playlist would probably remind him of what he should be doing—what he _would_ be doing if it weren’t for his knee.

He was halfway back to his room before he remembered that his phone—the one with all his music on it—was still dead.

If there was a way to convert it to an old school MP3 Player or an iPod, he would’ve plugged it in, but the flood of notifications he knew would come in kept him from finding the charger.

Even though he would’ve killed for something to help drown out his thoughts.

* * *

The jog did him good. It’d been the first time he’d been outside for more than a walk down to the end of the driveway. The fresh air made him realize how stale the air in the basement had become.

When he got back, he opened a couple of the windows, airing the space out.

The problem, though, was that after he’d been outside that the walls felt even closer than they had before.

He thought it might be better after he showered, but once he was sitting back in front of the TV, he started to itch again, needing to move. Needing to do something.

Irritated, Jon turned the TV back off.

He needed to get back out of the basement but where could he go?

Not out where he could be recognized.

Not upstairs, into Sansa’s space, and definitely not when she wasn’t even home.

Where was left?

He supposed he could go over to the Starks’ house, but he didn’t know who was home. And with his phone dead, he couldn’t call Arya or Robb. He didn’t know their numbers and he didn’t have them programmed in his prepaid. The only numbers he had in there were takeout and Tarly.

He couldn’t very well call one of the restaurants just to talk to someone, and Tarly and him didn’t really talk about anything other than football.

And Jon didn’t want to talk about football.

He paced the basement, trying to figure out how to get the walls to stop inching nearer.

The pacing was worse.

It made him feel caged, trapped.

It made him bolt for the door, nearly heaving with the need for fresh air.

He collapsed in the grass of Sansa’s backyard, feeling sweaty and shaking.

 _What the absolute fuck was that_? Jon thought, watching the sky swim above him.

He felt like he’d downed a fifth of bourbon by himself.

He felt like if he sat up, he might puke.

All he could do was lay there and wait for the sky to stop swimming, for his breathing to return to normal.

He figured he’d probably been light headed from the jog after not doing anything but sitting on the couch for the past week and a half. Plus, his body wasn’t used to all the beer and greasy food he’d been eating.

That’s what this was. It was from over exerting his body after not taking care of it.

Plus, he’d barely slept since his contract had been dropped.

Exhaustion probably caused it.

Whatever it was.

* * *

The sound of a car door shutting startled Jon from where he was lying, just feet from the basement door.

He hadn’t realized what time it was.

Sansa was home and he was barely recovering from losing his shit in her backyard.

He heard the beep of her locking her car, which meant she was probably inside. And if she walked past her kitchen window, she might see him.

Jon scrambled up, trying to stay low enough that she wouldn’t be able to see him, and back into the house.

He leaned against the door, thinking that maybe the walls would immediately start coming for him, but they didn’t. They stayed where they belonged.

Taking a steadying breath, he stepped away from the door that was supporting him slowly. Just in case.

Without the TV on, Jon realized he could hear Sansa moving around upstairs. He hadn’t had the TV off since he started staying in the basement.

He thought the sound of her walking around might make him uncomfortable—such an obvious reminder that this was her house and he was just crashing. Crashing, like he had in high school.

Rudderless. Adrift.

Not belonging to any place or anyone.

But it didn’t.

It was oddly comforting, to know he wasn’t alone.

* * *

For the first time since being in Sansa’s house, Jon kept the TV off. Instead, he listened to the quiet creaking and beeping from her walking around and cooking.

Jon hadn’t eaten yet. The feeling of nausea hadn’t fully dissolved when he came back in but suddenly, he was hungry.

Hungrier than he’d been since coming North.

Too hungry for the half a chicken salad he’d been planning on eating tonight—another left over from Sansa.

Whatever she was cooking smelled far more filling.

Far more appetizing.

Jon couldn’t go up and ask if she was making extra…could he?

Instead, he went to the mini fridge and pulled out the salad. He’d intended to heat up the chicken, but as soon as he opened the container, he realized he probably waited a little too long to eat it.

Holding his breath, Jon dumped the expired food into the trash and immediately knotted the bag, planning to take it out before the whole basement started to smell.

He went out the only exit he used, going around the side of the house, assuming Sansa kept her bins on the patch of concrete that extended pass the garage. Except they weren’t.

Jon went around to the front, looking for the bins.

Apparently, she kept them in the garage. At least the door was up and he didn’t have to ask her to open it, or go upstairs and through the kitchen to throw it out.

He quietly shuffled around her car to the bin, around the boxes, bike, and what looked like yard decorations.

He thought he could throw it away and head back to the basement without Sansa knowing he was in her garage. Something about it made him feel like he was sneaking around, but he also didn’t know if he could handle a conversation right now. Not after whatever happened earlier that afternoon.

Only Jon didn’t know that Sansa apparently kept a box of what only could be fucking _windchimes_ on top of her trash bin.

He shifted the box and he was pretty sure the noise it made could’ve raised the dead.

Jon was wholly unsurprised when the door flew open only a few seconds later.

“Jon?” she asked, sounding relieved.

“Why do you have windchimes on your trash?” he asked, too startled to bother not asking.

“Raccoons. It keeps them out.”

“Oh.”

Jon dropped the bag into the bin, shut the lid, and moved the box back.

He knew from the yellow light that she was still in the doorway. He wondered if she was watching him or if she was waiting for him to say something. He wondered why she hadn’t gone back inside yet.

He found out when he turned to go back out the way he came.

“You can come through this way. You don’t have to go around,” she offered, stepping out of frame.

Jon paused, trying to think of a valid reason to not go through the house but nothing came to mind.

After what was probably a few seconds too long, he stepped back around to where she was standing and into her kitchen.

The smell of whatever she was cooking overwhelmed him. His stomach rumbled audibly and he was pretty sure his face flushed pink.

“Have you eaten yet?” she asked, he thought rather graciously. “I can make you a plate.”

Jon opened his mouth to respond, but she was already taking down a second plate.

“Sure,” he said softly, after she began dishing up both plates.

Sansa handed him a heaping plate, like she knew how hungry he was.

He was half tempted to take his plate and hide in the basement the way he had been, but then came the problem of bring the plate back up and having to interact again—having to have that energy.

It would just be easier to eat up here.

“Do you want something to drink?”

Sansa set her plate on the counter, and Jon realized she didn’t eat at a dining room table, like they had growing up at the Starks’. They wouldn’t have to sit across from eat other. That would definitely make things easier.

“Water?”

He expected her to look at him, to say something, to ask because when she’d put all those leftovers in the mini fridge, it was almost full of beer. She didn’t; she handed him a glass and set a second one down next to her own plate.

Jon sat on the stool next to her and he was suddenly acutely aware of how little space was between them.

Arya had come over yesterday, but they’d sat on opposite sides of the couch. Before now, that had been the closest he’d been to someone since coming back North. Now Sansa was sitting considerably closer.

He could smell the sweetness of her shampoo or perfume or something just under the seasonings of the stir fry.

Jon took a large bite, trying to replace the scent in his nose.

The last woman he’d been this close to was in the city, in his bed, the morning before Tarly convinced him to pack up and head North.

She’d been the thing that broke him into agreeing.

Jon took another bite, trying to swallow way that memory.

It was fine.

He was in the North.

Sansa wasn’t _her_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More interactions are coming I promise


	7. Sansa

It took everything in Sansa had to not ask Jon if he was okay.

Her eyes were fixated on his forearm, how the tendons stood out with how tightly he gripped the fork.

At first, her glance had been appreciative until she realized why the tendons looked the way they did. Then she couldn’t look away because of how it filled her with worry.

What was going through his head that he held the fork with that grip? That he seemed so tense?

She wanted so badly to put her hand on his arm, to say _tell me what you need_ , but the set of his jaw told her not to.

Instead, she ate her dinner quietly, trying to ignore the way his warmth made her skin hum.

Sansa tried to keep up small talk while they ate, but she didn’t really know what to ask him about. She wished she’d asked Arya, but they at least had common interests. They could easily find something to talk about. It didn’t work the same for her and Jon.

So, after a few attempts that got her monosyllabic answers, Sansa let them fall into silence.

* * *

Sansa called Robb and Arya as soon as Jon went quietly back to the basement. He’d offered to help her with the dishes, but his spine had still been ramrod straight and she thought he looked uncomfortable with her so close. That was the only thing she could think of. So she sent him back downstairs.

She waited until she had the water in the sink running to call.

“How’d Mom and Dad get you out of the house after your shoulder?” she asked once they both answered.

“They made me run errands—pick up Arya and the boys, get dinner, that kind of thing. Forced me into a routine.”

“They also took his XBOX out of his room,” Arya added.

“Okay, well Jon doesn’t have an XBOX or little siblings.”

“Sansa, it’s nice that you care, but you’re not Mom and Dad. It’s not your responsibility.”

“Then who’s is it?” she asked before she could stop herself, bridging a topic that was not discussed: Jon’s family.

Sansa didn’t know the details—Robb and Arya might have known more than she did. All she knew was that Jon was around a lot before they started high school, then he was suddenly living in the guest room. And then it wasn’t the guest room anymore; it was Jon’s.

The dead silence told her neither sibling had any kind of response to that.

The creak of floorboards had her heart hammering. She thought it was just him walking across the basement, from the couch to the bathroom or back. She could still hear the TV going.

“We’re all he has,” she continued, still quiet. “It’s our job to take care of him.”

“I’ll come by later this week. See if I can’t get him out for a drink or something,” Robb offered, his voice much softer than it had been.

“His phone’s still going straight to voicemail. See if you can’t get him to charge it, yeah?”

“Okay.” That should be an easy enough task, she thought. It was, at least, a specific task.

“You know what helped the most? How Mom and Dad really got me out after that game?”

“How?”

“They made me feel needed.”

“I can do that.”

Sansa thought she heard the floorboards again, and she almost hoped it was Jon coming back upstairs. That maybe he’d forgotten something or was hungry still or _anything._

She turned from where she stood at the sink, watching the basement stairs for his shadow or to hear the stairs creak.

But she knew better. Jon definitely didn’t come upstairs. The only time he had in almost two weeks was tonight, when she explicitly invited him in from the garage.

She almost smiled remembering his face when he asked about the box of windchimes. It was the least guarded she’d seen him.

Then she got an idea.

* * *

Sansa had run to her parents’ house to pick up the tools she borrowed from them every time she needed something fixed. Usually, she also borrowed one of her siblings to actually fix whatever it was, but this time she didn’t.

When she got home, she was surprised to see Jon in the side yard.

 _What perfect timing_ , she thought, noticing the trash bags he was carrying. It had only been three days since he’d eaten dinner with her, when he was also taking out garbage. She wondered if it was from all the takeout he’d been eating. But Arya said he was eating the food she’d taken down. Maybe it was an excuse to get out of the basement? Like Robb had said?

“Jon, I was hoping to see you,” she called, hopping out of the car. “I need your help, if you’re not busy.”

She saw Jon look at her, but his guard was in place and she had never been as good at reading him as Arya was.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Thanks.” She smiled brightly before pulling the tool kit from her front seat. “I’ve been meaning to get Robb or one of the boys over here to help me with this, but I keep forgetting. I figured since you’re here…” she shrugged, leading him into the garage. “I’m sure I could do it myself, find a video on YouTube or something, but I’m terrible with tools. I don’t even own my own set. These are Mom and Dad’s.”

“Uh-huh.”

Sansa bit her tongue. She hadn’t meant to ramble quite so much. It was just that she was nervous.

She had thought she had gotten over her nerves being around Jon.

Her tongue’s inability to shut up suggested otherwise.

“Um, so my window’s busted in here,” she motioned. The screen had worn through in the late fall, but she hadn’t thought to fix it until everything started to thaw out and the raccoons used it to raid her trash. Her boxes of windchimes had been meant to be temporary, but it had worked, so she hadn’t bothered to do any more than that.

“Looks like an easy fix,” Jon said, climbing on a box to look closer.

His voice sounded surer than she’d heard it yet.

Maybe Robb was right, and Jon just needed something to do.

“Can you hand me the screwdriver?”

Sansa dug through the bag and passed him the tool, careful to not let their fingers brush.

She perched on a box beside him and passed him whatever he asked her. He worked quietly, only talking to ask for something. He seemed focused; his mouth twisted in a way she’d only seen from her TV screen when they zoomed in on him after a play.

She wanted to talk to him, ask him all the questions she’d been wanting to, but she couldn’t. She had to be happy with her small victory of getting him to fix her window.

* * *

They were just finishing putting the new screen in when Sansa heard a car pull into her driveway. She turned to see Robb’s SVU pulling in. Sansa immediately grabbed her phone, expecting to see a text forewarning his coming over, but there was nothing.

So this was a drop by? Robb never just dropped by. Arya did. Robb did not.

Unless he was here to see Jon, and Jon still hadn’t charged his phone so there was no way of alerting him that he was coming by.

“Robb’s here,” she muttered, giving Jon warning as Robb parked behind her car.

She didn’t know what she expected Jon to do, but she felt like he should be warned. She didn’t know why. Robb was supposed to be his best friend. Why would he need warning that his best friend was walking toward him?

And yet Jon looked appreciative of her warning.

“What’re you working on?” Robb asked, coming into the garage.

“Jon’s fixing my window.”

Robb glanced at her as if saying _that wasn’t what I meant._

“Sansa’s helping,” Jon offered quietly, over his shoulder. Sansa forgot how well Jon knew the Stark family dynamics and how well he could read all of them.

“Jeyne’s mom is taking her for a spa day-thing tomorrow. I thought maybe we could go out for a drink or something.”

She tried not to stare at Jon’s profile as he continued to work on her window. His mouth was still twisted in concentration, but she could tell it wasn’t the window he was focused on.

Sansa knew from the news articles she’d been reading until he showed up in Winterfell that he still went out, even after his contract dropped, but she suspected he hadn’t since coming North. She wasn’t sure if that was because Winterfell had two bars or because Winterfell didn’t have quite the same type of women he had been frequently photographed with before coming back.

“I dunno.”

“Cassel’s got a deal on this weekend. Wings and a pitcher.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe the four of us could go, us and Arya. Make it a group thing.”

Robb shot her a look, like she was interfering.

“Yeah, okay,” Jon whispered, looking at her over his arm that continued to hold up her window frame.

Sansa was glad she put on makeup this morning, otherwise the fact she was blushing at the fact Jon looked at her—her, not Robb—would be far more visible. And the fact that he agreed to her suggestion to make it a group thing.

She smiled sweetly at Robb and he rolled his eyes.

“I’ll pick Arya and you guys up tomorrow around seven, then?”

“Seven works for you?” she asked Jon, turning the question directly to him.

“Not like I’ve got other stuff going on.”

 _Oh, so he_ does _have an attitude,_ Sansa thought. She knew Jon’s guard was thick, knew his walls were high and made of strong stuff. The fact he allowed that to slip past almost made her smile.

“Seven sounds good.”

Robb gave her another look before he left, and she knew she’d be getting a text as soon as he got home.

But Jon agreed to go out, so how mad could he be?

* * *

They finished up with the window soon after Robb left.

Sansa thought Jon was probably eager to get back downstairs and away from her, but she thought she’d extend an offer anyway.

“I was thinking about ordering pizza tonight. Do you want some?”

Jon had been packing the bag of tools back up the way Ned kept it. Sansa hadn’t been paying attention to which pocket she’d been pulling them from, but either Jon had or he remembered when he lived with them.

He’d glanced up at her, but only briefly.

“Or I can bring a few slices down for you, if you’re sick of me.”

She’d meant it as a joke, but she realized she did kind of mean it. This was the most time she suspected they spent together without the rest of the family. She knew she avoided him for most of the time he lived with them, but it wasn’t like he was ever actively inviting her along or talking to her either.

“Pizza sounds good,” he said after a beat. “I should shower, though.”

“Okay. I’ll call. What’d you want on yours?”

“Whatever you’re ordering is fine.”

She was planning on ordering a margherita pizza, so she doubted that. She figured she could text Arya and ask what they normally ate. She remembered them splitting pizzas back in high school.

“Do you want me to text you when it comes, or…?”

Sansa asked because she didn’t want to come into the basement without warning. She thought it was important that he knew it was his space, even if she snuck down sometimes to do her laundry.

“Um, sure. I can give you my number.”

Her head snapped over to look at him. That was not what she was expecting.

“Arya said you hadn’t charged your phone?”

“Yeah, no, I haven’t. I have a prepaid I’ve been using.”

_Oh, that’s how he’s been calling in his takeout._

“Yeah, here.”

She handed him her phone to put his number in. When he handed it back, she saw that he put in his name as _Jon Snow._ As if she’d forget which Jon he was.

“So, I’ll text you when it gets here?”

“Okay.”

Sansa knew better than to think Jon might follow her and go into the basement from the kitchen. Instead, he stored the tool kit back in her car before going through the side entrance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next two chapters are A LOT of interaction I promise


	8. Jon

If Jon hadn’t run out of leftovers, he might’ve found an excuse to not have pizza with Sansa. But he’d been thinking about ordering pizza anyway, and this just seemed more practical.

And it would be good practice for going out tomorrow.

Jon had had every intention of saying no to Robb’s offer. The idea of sitting in a _sports bar_ with Robb—Robb who also had what could’ve been a promising football career cut short due to injury—was too much, even if they had been best friends once.

They had been best friends, until Robb’s injury.

After Robb had to stop playing and Jon’s professional career took off, their friendship fell to the occasional phone calls, major life updates.

Robb’s job in the family business.

That he met Jeyne.

That he proposed, that they married, and now that they were expecting their first child.

Jon’s career might have surpassed Robb’s, but Robb’s life surpassed Jon’s.

What could they possibly have to talk about now?

But then Sansa offered to come, and eating dinner with her a few days ago hadn’t been terrible. And neither had the couple of hours he spent with Arya.

With the two of them there, he thought he could handle it.

He wouldn’t feel the loss of the life he could have lived as strongly with them as a buffer.

* * *

Jon stood, fresh from his shower, his phone in his hand, frozen at the bottom of the stairs.

Sansa had texted him almost two minutes ago, saying the pizza had just been delivered. He’d started for the stairs automatically, until he realized he’d never gone up them. It was so basic, so stupid, but it felt like some kind of boundary, some line, would be crossed if he went up them. If he didn’t go around the side and knocked on her door instead.

But then he’d have to deal with Sansa’s questioning eyes, because she’d be too polite to ask why he didn’t just come up the stairs. And Jon didn’t think he could deal with that.

So, he steeled himself and walked up.

“I ordered you a buffalo chicken pizza, I hope that’s okay. Arya said it’s what you used to like.”

Jon watched as she opened the two boxes and pulled a few slices onto a plate. He’d said he’d be fine with whatever she was planning on ordering. She didn’t need to order him his own.

He opened his mouth to tell her as much, but she handed him a plate and he snapped it shut.

“Thank you.”

“You want something to drink? I was thinking about making an old fashioned.”

Again, his mouth was open but the question he wanted to ask stalled on his tongue. He wanted to ask since when did Sansa Stark drink old fashioneds?

But he didn’t have any right to ask that.

When he still lived in Winterfell, Sansa was a freshman who definitely didn’t drink anything, let alone old fashioneds. And even then, it was like they were ever close enough for him to know her drink of choice. He didn’t remember what she drank at family dinners, if it was juice or water or soda or milk. He never cared enough to pay that much attention.

Which was why he forced the question to not leave his mouth.

“Sure.”

“Do you want to grab the brandy? It’s in the cupboard over there,” she motioned.

He walked over, expecting to see the bottle of brandy and maybe mostly wine or vodka. Not a fully stocked liquor cabinet, with not only the brandy and vodka but also bourbon and whiskey and gin. There was wine in there too, but this was not what he expected Sansa Stark’s liquor cabinet to look like.

When he set the bottle of brandy on the counter, he looked at her more closely than he had since he moved into her basement two weeks ago.

He’d realized how much she’d grown up when she brought all that Tupperware down. He saw how she’d grown from awkward with braces to willowy and beautiful.

But he hadn’t seen how adult she was, despite the fact he was crashing in the house she _owned._ He saw how planes of her face had lost that childish roundness. She had sharp edges now.

Sansa glanced over at him while she made the drinks, probably because she felt him staring.

Jon suddenly studied the plate of pizza he hadn’t touched yet.

Buffalo chicken pizza had been his favorite, back before he started getting serious about his diet, before he started eating clean.

He tried to not feel anything at the fact she’d clearly reached out to Arya to ask what kind of pizza he wanted.

It was such a small, such a stupid thing for him to be touched by.

He clearly needed more human interaction if this was what he felt when someone got him pizza. He should be back in the city. He wouldn’t feel this in the city.

“Thanks for the help with the window earlier,” Sansa said, setting the drink in front of him. “I really appreciate it.”

She held his gaze for a moment, before he looked away to take a sip of the old fashioned.

“No problem.”

And really, fixing her window hadn’t been. It felt good to be using his hands. It felt good to be out of the basement. To be _doing_ something.

It had felt good to have company, to not be alone, even if all Sansa was doing was handing him tools.

They hadn’t talked beyond tools, aside from when Robb showed up and when she suggested dinner.

She didn’t ask anything from him, didn’t expect him to do anything beyond fix her window.

It had felt good to accomplish something.

* * *

It was a quiet dinner, not as quiet as the last one he’d eaten with her, but quiet. For the most part, he found it painless.

He almost laughed at one point when he realized that Sansa was quickly becoming the person he felt most comfortable around.

When he realized he might rather eat pizza with her than wake up next to a warm body in the city.

That was the thought that propelled him through the next day and the anticipation that began sneaking up about going out to Cassel’s with Robb and the girls.

Eating pizza and having a few drinks in Sansa’s kitchen was one thing, but going out to a bar was something else.

They were just splitting a pitcher between the four of them though—that’s what Robb said—a pitcher between four people couldn’t last more than two hours, he reasoned.

He could do two hours. He’d done four sitting with Sansa last night, plus however long it took them to fix the window.

He could do two hours.

* * *

For the second time in two days, Jon found himself walking up the stairs from the basement. It was easier the second time. He didn’t waste two minutes standing at the bottom debating if going around the side of the house was an option.

In the kitchen, he was glad to see Sansa had a beer bottle on the counter beside her. That meant the one he just finished was acceptable.

“There’s some of your pizza left over in the fridge if you want it tonight or tomorrow,” Sansa told him, dropping her bottle in the recycling.

“Okay. Thanks.”

He knew he’d been speaking in monosyllables and staccato sentences. He knew it sometimes sounded like his voice suddenly stopped, like there was more left unsaid.

When he was in the city, when he’d say something short, maybe a little abrupt to a woman, they would always stare at him a few seconds longer, thinking he had more to say. They always looked at him, waiting for more. Wanting more.

Some of them huffed when he didn’t add anything and some tried to pry it out of him.

Sansa didn’t.

It almost made him want to say more.

* * *

Jon vaguely remembered Cassel’s from when he still lived in Winterfell. He remembered that it was very old school, with peanut shells all over the bar and the same handful of beers consistently on tap.

Cassel’s still had the peanut shells on the bar and the same beer on tap, with maybe three new local craft beers, but it also had a stage, a dance floor, and what appeared to be a karaoke machine.

“Did Cassel’s…update?” he asked Sansa in undertone.

“Looks like it.”

She leaned around him, grabbing a flyer from the bar. Jon was startled with the warm touch of her hand on his back. It disappeared when she leaned back, studying the flyer. She’d touched him for less than ten seconds, but the warmth lingered, spreading across his back.

It was the only intentional contact he’d had since he moved into her basement. She was the first person to reach out and touch him since he left the city.

The first to touch him in a non-sexual way in months.

It made his palms itch. He wanted to reach out, touch her. Hold her.

Grab her wrists and wrap her arms around him.

Gods, he wanted her to hold him.

Arya’s voice broke his daydream about being in Sansa’s arms.

“Robb, did you _intend_ to bring us here on _ladies’ night_?”

“What?” Robb snatched the flyer from her.

Jon almost smiled.

“It said there was a deal on wings and pitchers!”

“No, look, here it says it,” Sansa pointed out, her finger indicating to the fine print at the bottom of the flyer. “There’s a deal on wings and pitchers as part of the ladies’ night.”

“Oh, shit. Um, we can go somewhere else… I think the place over on Main Street is supposed to be good.”

All three Starks turned to look at Jon then. Like it was his call to make. Like he hadn’t spent every single night in a club when he was still in the city. This was tame compared to what he’d been doing.

“Here’s good.”

Jon knew none of them were expecting that, but Cassel’s had dimmed lights and a group of women for a bachelorette party. No one would expect to see Jon Snow, the football star, in a small Winterfell bar during a ladies’ night.

When they got a booth, Arya slid into one side and Sansa the other. When they were children, Jon would often choose to sit next to either Robb or Arya because they were the two he was most comfortable with. Now, though, he sat beside Sansa, because eating pizza with her last night was the most human he’d felt in months—since his contract was dropped.

* * *

Jon knew all three of them were trying to subtly watch him. Arya and Sansa were better at hiding it than Robb was, but that was probably because he was across from him.

It made him want to order around of shots for them all, but he knew that wouldn’t prove that he was fine.

And maybe he wasn’t fine. He had no career and if he wasn’t a football player, he didn’t know who he was, but with the three of them, in a place he wouldn’t be recognized, he could let himself have a good time.

Good times he could do. He’d done plenty of them in the city.

Which was why, instead of just listening to their conversation, he started joining in. Not much, not more than a sentence here or there. Just enough so that they knew that he could do out. He could do a bar, just so long as no one asked for an autograph.

After they ordered their wings, he got up to use the bathroom. And for a few minutes without them exchanging looks every so often.

When he came back, Sansa wasn’t in the booth. He hesitated next to the table. She would probably be back in a minute and it’d be easier if he just waited for her.

“Waitress came by, said food would be out soon,” Robb offered. Jon nodded. “Sansa’s there, if you’re waiting for her.”

He turned, following Robb’s finger.

Sansa wasn’t in the bathroom; she was out on the dance floor with the bachelorette party.

“They were playing some throwback from when she was in high school.”

She looked like she belonged with them, Happy, pretty, shiny. He could see her smile from where he stood, leaning against the side of the booth.

His eyes drifted lower than her smile. He watched how her hips swayed, how her hair shone in the lights.

Then the spotlight hit her briefly, washing her silhouette in a golden glow. He saw the outline of her sharply, how her hips flared and her waist curved.

Sansa Stark was so far from the girl with braces he once knew.

If this was a club in the city, he might have walked over to her, danced with her. In the city, he might have went home with her, given the chance.

That’s when he realized he, technically, was going home with Sansa, regardless.

* * *

When the food came ten minutes later, Jon was the one who was sent to the dance floor to fetch her. He wasn’t sure if it was because they had been sitting on the same side of the booth or because he kind of wanted to.

It was louder, this close to the speakers. Jon had to lean down close to Sansa’s ear to tell her that the wings arrived.

Sansa followed him back to the table and slid back into the booth.

Jon had purposefully sat beside Sansa because she made him feel human, but sitting beside her now made him feel _too_ human. He was acutely aware of every time their elbows brushed or their feet. Of how her body seemed to get warmer from the spice of the wings. Or maybe that was his. But that didn’t make much sense, because he knew both of them ordered sauce that fell in the middle of the scale—unlike Robb and Arya, who went for the hottest sauce they offered and were both sweating and swearing.

“You’re going to make yourself sick eating that fast,” Sansa commented. She was somehow able to keep the sauce contained to only the tips of her fingers. She held the wings delicately, bit into them daintily.

“That’s half the fun of wings. Racing,” Arya said with a completely full mouth. Robb mumbled something too, but it was impossible to tell what he’d said.

Jon had a handful left, Sansa a few more than him, when Arya threw down her final bone, tossed her hands in the air, and declared that she won. Robb still had a wing with half its meat on it in his hands.

“Shit,” Robb muttered, biting into the last piece. “We need more beer.”

Arya and Robb had drunk more than half the pitcher just while eating their wings.

“I’ll order it,” Jon said, grabbing the empty container. He left his uneaten wings because he knew finishing them would make him warmer, and so would watching Sansa finish hers.


	9. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back.

Sansa was definitely drunk. She might’ve been embarrassed about being drunk with Robb, Arya, and Jon, but she was _pretty sure_ Jon was drunk too.

Why else would he have not put up much of a fight when she grabbed his hand to drag him out to the dance floor when Robb went to get a third pitcher?

It was silly dancing, drunk dancing, the way she might’ve with friends in college. It wasn’t the way she’d normally dance with a boy. Because Jon wouldn’t dance with her like that. Jon didn’t see her like that. Even when they were drunk at a bar and their tongues still stung from the sauce on the wings.

But she saw how he smiled when she did some old move from a music video she remembered, how he laughed.

It was the first time she saw him laugh since he came back to Winterfell.

It made her stomach flutter. But that was just the beer and the spicy wings. Nothing else.

* * *

After a few more songs and another two pitchers, Robb dropped them off. Even in her drunken, hazy state, Sansa noticed how Jon seemed to immediately turned for the side yard.

“Do you want some of that pizza? A drink?”

The alcohol was making things move in slow motion, Sansa thought. That explained why it felt like Jon’s eyes _dragged_ across her. Dragged, lazily. It felt like each piece of her exploded like a firework as his eyes moved from her legs, her shorts, her waist, her chest, shoulders, neck, until they finally got to her face.

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good.”

Sansa led Jon into the house. She giggled when her foot clipped the doorjamb, causing her to stumble slightly into the kitchen. It also caused Jon to reach out, steady her, his fingers just grazing the hem of her tank top.

Even tipsy, drunk, whatever, she knew it was just because she’d lost her balance. It didn’t mean anything, just like how it hadn’t meant anything when she touched him at the bar.

Ten minutes later, they were settled on the floor of her living room, barely heated pizza on the coffee table between them.

“It seemed like you had fun tonight,” Sansa hedged around a mouthful of pizza.

“Yeah. I did. It was nice to get out of the basement.”

“You can come out, you know. You don’t have to stay down there.”

“I know.” His voice was quieter. It sounded more sober—in both senses—than it did when they were dancing at the bar.

“Did you go out much, in the city?”

Jon chuckled, swigging his beer.

“Yeah. Too much. Part of the reason Tarly sent me up here.”

She almost asked _part of the reason_? _What’s the other part?_

She almost asked _do you know when you’re supposed to go back?_

She had enough sense left to not ask either question.

“I used to watch you play,” she said instead, even though that was almost as stupid as the first two things that popped into her head. “I watched all of your games.”

Sansa was careful not to look directly at him as she said it. She could feel how her face burned. She hoped it looked like she was just flush from the beer and the dancing and the spicy wings instead of what she’d just admitted.

Because Jon had to know that she didn’t actually have an interest in football, right?

She basically just confessed her crush.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

“You did?”

“Even the ones at UCB. I had a livestream I’d watch.”

_I have all of your jerseys too—high school, college, professional._

That one she successfully kept to herself.

“I didn’t know that.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” she shrugged. She’d followed all of Robb’s games too, at U of T, but she didn’t livestream the games. She did see a few in person, but other than that she just watched the updates. “I just liked to watch you play. You were so different on the field than you were in person. You looked comfortable there.”

Her tongue was working faster than her brain. She set her bottle on the table, slightly out of reach. She couldn’t afford to say any more stupid.

After too long of a beat of silence, Sansa glanced at him. Thankfully, he was focused on peeling the label from the bottle.

“D’you know why I started playing peewee?”

She shook her head, wishing she’d had more water, more pizza, anything that would’ve stopped her from bringing what had to be the only topic he wouldn’t want to talk about.

She did vaguely recall Jon and Robb playing peewee together, if she thought about it hard enough. That was far before the guest room became his.

“It was the only after school program that met every day and on weekends.”

Sansa was pretty sure Robb had joined because he thought the helmets looked cool.

“My mom worked a lot and they put me in football after I spent too much time in the office after school, waiting to be picked up.”

“ _Oh_.”

“Yeah. Except I was good. It was the first thing I remember being good at. So I stuck with it.”

“And now you don’t have it,” she whispered.

“Nope.” The _p_ popped loudly. She nearly winced at how loud it was compared to the quiet voice he had been using. “Indefinitely. That’s what the doctors said. Indefinitely. So I’m here. Indefinitely.”

Jon succeeded in peeling the label from the bottle in a single piece. Sansa watched his fingers deftly proceed to shred the label into tiny pieces on the coffee table.

He didn’t look at her. He just continued to rip up the label.

“Football was my one thing. My teams were my family. And now I’m living in your basement.”

Before, he had sounded detached, maybe a little clinical. Apathetic. When he said he was living in her basement, a bitterness crept in. It was probably the most emotion she’d heard from him since he moved back to Winterfell.

She tried to ignore that the most emotion he’d expressed was about living in her basement. The queasiness in her stomach wasn’t from the acrimonious _your_ he’d used. That was the wings reacting to the pizza.

“You still have us, Jon. We’re still your family,” she whispered, stretching her leg out beneath the coffee table until her foot touched his.

Sansa thought he might pull his foot away. She hoped he might push it closer.

Jon did neither. He didn’t return the pressure, but he didn’t pull away either. He just let her keep her toes pressed against the side of his foot.

He didn’t say anything either.

Instead, Sansa started babbling, in her old, nervous habit. The fact she was drunk didn’t help either.

She rambled on about her job as a marketing project manager and how she ended up buying a house within walking distance to her childhood home. She told him all about her plans for renovations and what she wanted to do for landscaping. She knew Jon didn’t care but she couldn’t sit with him in broody silence and she knew he didn’t want to keep talking about football. Or thinking about football.

So, she blathered on until she ran out of inane things to tell him.

All the while, she stared at his face—watching how it went from the hard mask she’d known him to wear all of high school and the two weeks he’d been back to something softer. His mouth softened into something not quite a smile but something you could maybe mistake for one.

* * *

They sat in the living room long enough that Sansa’s back and butt got sore. Long enough that she slid back from drunk to more buzzed.

When they both started yawning, Jon pushed himself up and then offered her a hand.

Sansa stared at it for half a second before placing her hand in his. She knew she was blushing—her face would be bright pink at the sensation of his callused palm against hers.

On her feet, Sansa stumbled into him, into his chest. Had she been sober, she might’ve pushed back, apologized.

Only she wasn’t sober.

She wrapped her arms around his chest, holding him. She pulled him until their bodies were flushed—far closer than they had ever been before.

He was warmer than she expected. She didn’t know why she thought he’d feel cold. It was summer and the windows were open, and they’d been drinking. Logically, he should be warm. It still surprised her.

So did the fact he hugged her back. Tightly.

“I’d never be sick of you,” he murmured, his breath close to her ear. Sansa was blushing again.

She blushed harder when she realized that she might not have gotten over her middle school crush on Jon Snow.

* * *

Sansa woke up with a slight hang over. Not a bad one, just one that compelled her to stay in bed later than she normally would have.

The middle of the night was foggy, but her hugging him and him whispering _I’d never be sick of you_ were crystal clear. It made her wish she drank more. Enough so that she didn’t remember that. Because she didn’t know what to do with that. _I’d never be sick of you_. What did that even _mean_?

She wanted to call Arya and ask because Arya spoke Jon better than she did, but then she’d have to explain the whole thing to Arya. She’d have to admit that whatever it meant, him saying it meant something to her.

That maybe she might still have a crush on Jon. Jon, who was currently living in her basement. Indefinitely living in her basement.

 _Indefinitely_ rang in her head. Jon had said that last night—when he admitted that he’d probably never play football again.

She couldn’t call Arya, but she could call Robb. Robb would understand that part at least.

“What’s up? Jon okay?” Robb asked as soon as he picked up. He sounded far better than she felt, though he had been well enough to drive home from Cassel’s last night, and that part was particularly blurry.

“We kept drinking when we got back.”

“Surprised you’re up then.”

“Yeah. But I called ‘cause he said he’s here indefinitely. That’s the word he used.”

“I mean, we knew he probably wouldn’t play again but—I didn’t realize he officially moved back.”

“I don’t think he has. I think he’s hoping that something happens. I think that’s why he’s staying in my basement instead of getting an apartment or something. It doesn’t feel as permanent this way.”

“Well, he can’t live in your basement for forever.”

“Is there a place for him at the company? Not like a pity place, but something he could do? Something to get him out of the house? Get him into a routine?”

“Yeah, I can talk to Dad. See if there’s a place for him on one of the teams or something. Something low-key.”

“Thanks.”

“When you came back from U of T, did Mom and Dad make you talk to someone? I remember you going to PT but I remember you going somewhere else too.”

Sansa had been wracking her brain since they talked last, trying to recall what she could of Robb’s return home after his injury. She knew her parents had to have done more than take away his XBOX and force him to do chores.

“Oh. Yeah. They made me talk to someone.”

“Do you think maybe Jon should?”

Sansa bit at a hangnail on her thumb. She knew Robb would probably see this as her interfering, but Jon had been in her basement nearly half a month and she could count all the times she’d seen him on one hand.

“Probably wouldn’t hurt. I can call Dad and see if they remember who it was I went to. Did you get him to charge his phone yet?”

“No, but he has a prepaid he’s been using. I can give you that number.”

Sansa rattled it off, hoping it was okay that she was giving it out. But it was just Robb, right? It wasn’t like she was giving it to someone Jon didn’t know. She figured she should probably text it to Arya too.

“Do you think he’s okay or do you think him at Cassel’s was just a show?” Robb asked after a pause.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’re the one who he’s best friends with.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t spend half the night dancing with me, did he?”

Her face flamed instantly.

“What, you jealous?” she snapped.

“Hey, didn’t you like him back in high school or something?”

“Yeah, I’m hanging up now. Bye.”

She hoped her voice didn’t come out as strangled as it sounded to her. That would be a dead giveaway that maybe she still found Jon attractive.

Sansa tossed her phone down on her bed. She knew she should get up, make some coffee. She should do her grocery shopping. She might want to check on Jon, but she realized she could do that from bed. She had his weird prepaid number.

_Making hangover breakfast. Want to come up for some?_

She knew he would probably say no. She expected it. But she turned her notification alert up so she could hear what his response was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, but my motivation has been hit or miss. I have the next two chapters done, and have been working on some other WIPs. I promise I'm still plugging away at this even though I probably won't be updating regularly.


	10. Jon

Jon started jogging. He’d been jogging a couple of times since he went for that first one, but the morning after talking in Sansa’s living room, he woke up needing to move. He needed to be out of the basement. He needed to be doing something.

Something to keep him from thinking about the feel of Sansa’s arms around his chest. Or them dancing together at the bar. Her fingers against his back.

That was more consuming than the stupid words he’d uttered at the end of the night.

_I’d never be sick of you._

It had stuck with him, what she’d said when they finished fixing the window. She offered to bring the pizza down to him, instead of eating together, in case he was sick of her.

It was her filling the conversation last night, after they got back, that made him realize how comfortable she made him. Far more comfortable than he’d been in the city. Even before he’d fucked up his leg. She made him comfortable in a way he didn’t understand.

He wished he could blame his oversharing on the beer, but that wasn’t wholly true. It was just Sansa. His walls, filters, and guards all just didn’t exist when he was with her.

Jon hadn’t realized how tiring they were to keep in place until last night.

He knew if he stayed in bed any longer, he would continue to think about how she felt, how she smelled. He’d wonder if she was up yet. If maybe she wanted breakfast.

Instead, he jogged.

When he got back, he was surprised to see he’d missed a text on his prepaid. He still hadn’t charged his normal phone. He actually wasn’t sure where it was anymore. That realization was a relief.

When he played, he had it with him on all times, but mostly because everyone did. He got updates from other games, other players, rankings. He’d get regular texts and calls from teammates, coaches, and Tarly.

After he was injured, he was checking his phone for updates compulsively. Waiting for the doctors to call, his physical therapist, coaches, other teams, Tarly.

The fact he wasn’t tethered to it anymore made him breathe easier.

Jon opened the text, assuming it was spam coupon text that he started getting after eating out from this number so much. He forgot Sansa had his number—or he assumed she wouldn’t use it other than the one time.

_Making hangover breakfast. Want to come up for some?_

It had come in while he was jogging—nearly twenty minutes ago.

He was glad. He could text her back after his shower, explain he didn’t see it. Then he wouldn’t need an excuse to say no and he wouldn’t have to go upstairs.

Because all he could think about when he went to bed last night, half tipsy, and all he could think about this morning, completely sober, was how warm he had felt when she hugged him.

* * *

After Jon’s shower, he sent Sansa a brief text— _sorry, went for a jog and showered. Didn’t see your text_ —and threw his phone back into the mess of his bed.

Except now he didn’t have anything to do. It wasn’t yet eleven in the morning. The entire day stretched before him and he knew he would feel it tick by in individual seconds. The way he had every day since he ran out of shitty cable movies and realized he didn’t really enjoy spending the day in a blurry state between buzzed and half drunk. Most days, it made the day drag on more than speed it up.

He knew, now that he was here and had been for two weeks, he needed to find a way to spend his time other than holding out hope that Tarly would call with a possibility to bring him back to the city. That call wasn’t coming. He’d known that from the moment he came North, but a sad, sick part of him had still hoped.

After two weeks, Jon felt that tiny piece of hope he’d been clinging to slip through his fingers, the way his career and his life had.

If last night hadn’t happened, Jon might’ve sought out Sansa, but last night did happen, which meant Sansa was out of the question. He couldn’t monopolize her whole weekend.

He supposed he could call Robb or Arya, but that would mean getting their numbers from his dead phone he was avoiding.

But Arya did live within walking distance, he remembered Sansa mentioning. And it was Sunday. He could walk over to the Starks’. And even if Arya was busy, it would eat up almost an hour of his day. Yeah, he could do that.

* * *

When Jon arrived in Winterfell, he’d only seen Arya at the Stark house—probably because of the time of day. She was on a weird schedule, he’d since discovered, because of when her classes were offered at the college.

Other than Sansa and Robb, he hadn’t seen any of the other Starks since coming back North. Since the last time he had been in town, back before he started at UCB.

Jon had gone to the Stark house to see Arya. He had expected Arya to answer, like she had when he had showed up two weeks ago. Instead, it was Ned who answered the door.

Ned, the man who had done far more for him than anyone Jon had shared DNA with.

Ned, the man he had once given a Father’s Day card to because he was the closest thing Jon had ever known.

Ned, the man he had seen once and spoken to maybe fifteen times—nearly all holidays—since he started UCB.

“Arya said you were back,” Ned said, opening the door fully. Jon stepped into the house, full of trepidation. He had been planning for him and Arya hanging out, maybe playing a video game or something. Not the confrontation he’d been hoping on putting off. Indefinitely.

“Yeah.”

“She’s upstairs if you’re looking for her.”

Jon glanced up. He wasn’t expecting Ned to just let him in. He didn’t know if that was better or worse than a confrontation.

“Thanks.”

If Ned was offering an out, Jon was going to take it because he was a coward and he’d always been a coward. That’s why he hadn’t been back in to Winterfell since he graduated high school.

* * *

Jon paused at the top of the stairs. This house had been the closest thing he’d had to a childhood home. The house he grew up in didn’t count as a home in his mind. He’d lived in the guest room officially for the four years of high school, but it had unofficially been his before that. Often times, when he and Robb played peewee, he would go home with Robb from practice Friday night, and the Starks would drop him back off at school Monday morning. He probably spent more time between here and school than he did anywhere else before he graduated.

He expected it to look the same. When Arya said they were reno-ing the guest room into an office, he thought it meant changing out the furniture. Not restructuring the whole second floor.

Before, standing at the top of the stairs, if he looked down the hallway, he would’ve looked right at his old door, right next to Robb’s.

Now, the end of the hall opened into a huge office space. They must’ve knocked down the wall separating the guest room—his room—and Robb’s to make it big enough. They’d knocked down the walls so the hall flowed into it, a wide-open space.

He could see Arya from there, perched on a ladder and painting.

When he first showed up on the Stark doorstep, two weeks ago, he was struck by how much things have changed. Now there a physical representation of it and he didn’t like how it felt, to see how much they changed.

How they moved on without him.

Jon had to physically shake his head to remove the thought.

“Need a hand?” he asked, approaching. Arya did a doubletake when she saw him in the hall. She was the only Stark who he thought could see through what he thought was a pretty solid façade. It meant he sometimes had to play it up a little more with Arya than he did any of the others.

“What’re you doing here?”

“I needed to get out. Didn’t know where else to go.” The fact she could see him better than most also meant he was a little more honest with her than he would’ve been anyone else. Except maybe Sansa. He was more honest with her last night than he’d been with anyone in a long time.

“You want to help?”

“Sure,” he shrugged. It was mindless, but it was something. And it had felt good to fix Sansa’s window. Painting would probably feel almost as good.

“Did you have fun last night?” Arya asked after a few moments of quiet. He was set up on his own ladder on the other side of the room with a paint roller. He wondered if Arya purposefully stuck him on this wall. This wall had been Robb’s, not his.

“Yeah. It was nice to get out.”

“You need a job,” she declared. Jon looked at her, over his shoulder. “You need something to get you out of Sansa’s basement. Cassel’s is hiring. I saw the sign last night.”

“Cassel’s? A sports bar?”

A washed-up football player with a fucked-up knee working in a sports bar was not who he wanted to be. The irony was a bitter taste.

“Fair. But you do need something.”

Jon didn’t respond. He knew she was probably right. He did need an excuse to get out. That’s how he ended up here. Next time he’d actually have a set place to go.

And maybe he did need that. The walls hadn’t closed in on him since that one time, the first time he jogged, but sometimes he felt them inch closer. Sometimes the basement made his skin itch.

“What’s, uh. What’s Sansa’s deal?” he asked quietly after they spent maybe twenty minutes painting in silence.

“Her deal?”

He could feel Arya’s eyes on him, but he stayed focused on rolling the dove grey paint on evenly.

“She’s… She’s different than I remember,” he admitted.

Sansa was the Stark he interacted with least when he lived with them. He didn’t have any memories of her specifically, but she was in the background of every memory he had with the Starks or at the Stark house.

He remembered her as awkward and gawky in braces. She’d shot up some time in middle school, he thought, and he vaguely remembered something about her being embarrassed by her height.

He hadn’t thought much about her, after he left, if he was honest. But if he imagined how little Sansa Stark would grow up, she’d be more like some of the women he’d spent time with in the city. Not the ones he’d bring home from the club after his contract was dropped. Not the plastic ones who purposefully went to clubs to be taken home by someone like him. The ones he dated while he still played. The glass women who instead went to banquets and awards shows.

The ones who loved being taken out to restaurants that were impossible to get reservations at—unless you played for the Wolves or another team. The ones who loved his penthouse apartment and always complimented the view of the city. They always set him up perfectly to say something stupid like _it really is the best view_ while looking at them instead. And it always worked.

They were nice women, who liked nice things. They liked men who could give them nice things.

If he had to guess, he would’ve thought Sansa would’ve moved to the city. He could see her ending up with a man like who he used to be.

He never would’ve guessed that she would be single at twenty-six living within walking distance from her childhood home. He was sure she would’ve wanted out as much as he did.

When Arya didn’t respond, he twisted on the ladder to look at her. She was squinting at him.

“She went through a rough patch at the beginning of college. She doesn’t talk about it much. And she was dating someone last year, but he broke up with her when she got promoted over him. I don’t think she’s dated much since then, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jon remembered her gentle gaze and warm hands. It made him want to hurt whoever—whatever—caused her rough patch in college.

“I didn’t know,” he said, because what else could he say?

“I don’t know if it made her different so much as it made her…” Arya trailed off, forcing Jon to turn around towards her. “I don’t know what it made her, but I don’t know that she’s actually different.”

Jon tried to absorb that. He had to reconcile the memory of Sansa with the woman whose basement he was living in.

“I didn’t know she liked football,” he mentioned once he moved his ladder to continue painting the wall.

“ _Sansa_ likes football? I mean, she went to a lot of games in high school, but I thought that had more to do with hanging out with Jeyne and the rest of her group. That’s what they did.”

 _But she watched all of my games, she said_ , Jon wanted to say.

“She did go with Mom and Dad to Robb’s games sometimes though. So maybe. I dunno.”

That addition relieved Jon. Because otherwise, if she wasn’t watching his games because she liked football, that would mean something else. And Jon didn’t know how to handle anything else.

* * *

Jon was on his way out of the Stark house several hours after—after promising Arya that he would try to find a job or something to occupy his time—when he ran into Robb in the front hall.

“Jon, I was just going to call you.”

 _Wouldn’t have answered,_ Jon almost said but he successfully swallowed it. It must’ve still showed on his face though, because Robb followed it up.

“Sansa gave me your other number.”

“Oh. Right.” He guessed he should’ve expected that.

“Well, I guess I can just give you these then.” Robb handed him a couple of business cards. He wondered if Arya had already told Robb he needed something to do. He knew the Starks passed information along alarmingly fast.

Except the top card wasn’t for a business—not the way Jon was thinking it would be. It was for a therapist.

“That’s who I went to when I fucked my shoulder. It helped. I called and they have a few openings, if you want to make an appointment.”

“Right.”

Jon wanted to say he was fine. He didn’t need to talk to someone. But that would probably lead to at least an argument if not a fight. And he had successfully been in the Stark house without running into Ned again, or Catelyn at all, so he was anxious to get out. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to have that confrontation that he knew would be coming.

He looked at the other card then. It had STARK CONSTRUCTION at the top, with Robb’s and Jeyne’s names written in a fancy font under it, and then a handwritten number beneath it.

“What’s this one for?”

“Jeyne and I took over a couple of the teams from the business to focus on flipping rather than building. If you call that number, we can get you a spot on one of the next projects. If you want one.”

“Arya works fast,” he muttered, pocketing the cards.

“Huh?”

“Nothing. I’ll call on Monday.”

Because fixing Sansa’s window and painting what was now the office had felt good. Far better than being half drunk in Sansa’s basement.

And because it really wasn’t a place in the family company, not like Ned gave Robb when he was injured; it was just a spot on a construction team. It was just a job. And he needed one anyway.


	11. Sansa

If Arya hadn’t texted Sansa that Jon was over and painting the new office, Sansa wouldn’t have known that he’d even left the house. He was so quiet that unless she was listening for the TV, she couldn’t tell. She just assumed that he was usually down there.

She thought it was good that he was out. She didn’t know why he went to Arya, but she was glad that he was out.

Sansa used the time to get her laundry done without invading Jon’s space. It felt good to walk downstairs without nerves or butterflies or worrying about what Jon would think about her coming down.

It was the first time she actually lingered in the basement since Jon moved in.

Sansa didn’t _want_ to invade his space but she did want to make sure he had everything he needed.

So, she checked the bathroom for hand soap and toilet paper, his fridge for leftovers or other food he might need. She checked for all the household items she could think of and brought down whatever she could. A package of toilet paper, boxes of tissues.

She also realized she hadn’t vacuumed down here since before Jon moved in. Not that it was messy, but if Jon was out, she might as well clean. She didn’t expect Jon to clean her house—he was a guest.

Plus, her laundry was running and she’d already cleaned upstairs.

* * *

Sansa was on her last load of laundry and just finishing up cleaning when the basement side door opened and Jon stepped in. He froze when he saw her and Sansa felt a sick embarrassment boil in her stomach.

“Jon, hi. A-Arya said you were over helping paint, so I came down to do my laundry and…I thought I’d do some cleaning,” she trailed off stupidly. “I’m sorry, my laundry’s almost done and I’ll go back up.”

“You don’t have to clean up after me,” he muttered, coming into the basement and shutting the door.

“I was cleaning anyway. And it’s my house. You’re a guest,” she shrugged, winding up the chord for the vacuum.

Jon didn’t move from where he was, just a few feet inside the door.

The dryer beeped and Sansa jumped a little bit. She’d been focused so intently on Jon that she’d forgotten the sound the dryer would be making, even though she knew it would be finishing soon.

She wheeled the vacuum over to the stairs to take up before going to collect the rest of her laundry from the dryer. She threw it all quickly into her basket so she could take it upstairs. So she could go upstairs and give Jon his space back.

“I, um. I put more toilet paper under the sink. And a couple boxes of tissues in the closet.”

Jon nodded. He’d moved to stand nearer to the couch than the door, but he hadn’t sat down.

When he didn’t say anything, Sansa hitched the laundry basket higher on her hip so she could use her other hand to carry the vacuum upstairs. She made it up one stair when the vacuum was out of her hand.

“Let me carry that.”

His voice was low and much closer than she expected. It made her lungs stall for a second.

“Thank you. For cleaning and restocking everything.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

She shifted the laundry to her other hip so he couldn’t see the lacy pair of underwear that was of course on top.

In the kitchen, she told him where the vacuum was stored while she put her basket away in her room, out of sight.

“I was going to make dinner. Are you hungry?” she asked, coming back into the kitchen. Jon was standing only a few steps from the stairs, like he was headed back down.

“N… Yeah. I am. Thanks.”

He moved away from the stairs but he still stood stiffly, awkwardly. Like he wasn’t sure if he actually wanted to be there.

Sansa moved passed him to turn the oven on and take the chicken she’d marinated out of the fridge. She hadn’t intended it, but she just happened to breathe in through her nose when she passed closest to him.

He smelled like paint and shampoo and a little bit like home.

“Do… Can I help?”

She glanced at him, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, looking like he was ready to bolt but asking if he can help. Asking if he could stay.

“Um, yeah. There’s some veggies in the crisper drawer. Can you chop them? Knives are by the coffee maker.”

She could sense Jon moving around the kitchen behind her and hear the knife slicing through the veggies into the cutting board.

They cooked quietly, moving past and around each other smoothly. The only time they bumped into each other was when she’d backed up to open the oven and check the chicken and Jon had turned from the island, causing her to practically back right into his chest.

“Sorry,” she murmured, scurrying sideways so her hips weren’t anywhere near his pelvis.

“Smells good,” was all he said in response.

They plated the dinner quietly before moving to the countertop where they’d eaten dinner together once before. When they ordered pizza, they had eaten it in the living room with the TV on in the background. Sansa wanted to ask if he’d prefer that—the TV meant they wouldn’t have to talk—but he was the one who set his plate on the counter first.

“So, Robb and Jeyne are flippers?” Jon asked, cutting into his chicken.

It took Sansa a minute to register that he meant house flippers, as opposed to Ned and Catelyn, who built houses.

“Yeah. They started it a few years ago.”

“Robb gave me a number to call—he said they can get me on a team?”

“Oh, that’s good,” Sansa said, trying not to sound too pleased. She doubted he would appreciate her meddling.

“Arya said it would be good for me to get out. Have a routine.”

“She’s probably right.”

If Arya was suggesting he get it job, then maybe Sansa telling Robb to get Jon a job wasn’t actually meddling. Maybe it was actually helpful—what he needed.

“Yeah. I know.”

“Are you going to call?”

“Probably.”

“You should. I worked on one of their teams for a few summers, when I was in college. Demo day’s almost as good as therapy,” she joked.

“So it’d be doubly good for me?”

Sansa looked up at him. She thought he might be joking, but it was hard to tell. She offered a small smile because she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to respond to that—what was appropriate.

She wanted to ask if Robb had given him another number, or if Jon had thought about therapy, but that would imply that she already knew about it. She doubted Jon would welcome the idea that her and Robb were talking about his well-being without his knowledge. And therapy was personal. She wouldn’t expect him to talk about it with someone he’d barely been friends with as a kid.

They ate quietly for a few minutes. Sansa was spinning topics around in her head, trying to find something safe to talk about. Not something stupid like her watching all of his football games.

“I know I said last night that I’m here indefinitely…” Jon started slowly, his fork poking around without scooping up any food. “I thought I should maybe start paying rent.”

“Rent?” she sputtered.

Sansa had thought of him as a roommate, a housemate, but him paying rent felt wrong.

It wasn’t like him living there was costing her more money. He ordered all his own takeout and the little difference in the electric bill with him in the basement was barely noticeable. Plus, she made good money. She had even before her raise with her being made project manager at the firm.

“Unless… You’d like me to find someplace else?”

“No! No, no. But you don’t have to pay rent. I’m just happy to have you here,” she admitted honestly. She felt her face flush, but it didn’t bother her quite as much as it normally did.

“Then… Can I help with chores or groceries or something? I-I need to _do_ something, Sansa,” Jon whispered, still poking at his food. He didn’t look at her.

“Yeah, a’course. I can… put something up on the fridge or we can figure something out. But yeah. We can do that.”

“Thanks.”

Sansa watched Jon finally eat the bite he’d been pushing around on his plate. She thought he seemed more relaxed, but she’d thought that last night too. And when he was fixing her window. Maybe he was just finally adjusting to being back in Winterfell.

* * *

Sansa was standing beside Jon, drying the dishes as he washed. Her kitchen wasn’t really small, not for just two people, but it felt like it was when she was standing hip to hip with him at the sink.

She couldn’t help looking at him every time he handed her a new dish to dry. His shoulders still seemed tense, sloped forward. It wasn’t the posture that she remembered him having. Even off the field, both in high school and as an adult, she remembered him always standing up straight. He was shorter, and Sansa always assumed he had perfect posture to make up for it.

Looking at him now, it was almost like he lost an inch with how his shoulders hunched and curled.

It wasn’t intentional, when she put her hand against his back. She had to reach to put something away above the sink and she used him as balance.

Her first thought was how warm his back was, even through his shirt.

Her second was how knotted and bunched the muscles of his back were.

No wonder his posture sucked.

Sansa’s hand dropped from him slowly, her fingers itching to knead the muscles until he stood up straight, like the Jon Snow she always knew.

But that was too intimate. The thought itself was enough to make her face burn pink.

“Thanks for dinner,” Jon said roughly once the kitchen was cleaned. “I. Em. I could make dinner for us tomorrow? I feel like you’re always feeding me.”

The heat that had just cooled on her face slowly crept back up her neck. The way he worded it almost made it sound like a date.

“I…I can’t cook much, but I can follow a recipe. I can pick stuff up tomorrow. You normally get home around five, right?”

She hadn’t realized he’d learned her schedule.

“Yeah. Thanks, Jon.”

“You keep cooking for me. Figured I should return the favor,” he shrugged.

* * *

Sansa was brushing her teeth when Arya called.

“How was Jon?” Sansa asked as soon as she spit the toothpaste out.

“Real interested in you, actually.”

Sansa swallowed the butterflies she felt, hoping to drown them.

“What?”

“He asked what your deal was. And if you liked football.”

“…What’d you say?”

“Just that your first semester of college was rough. And that dick you dated last year broke up with you over a promotion.”

“You told him about my _dating_ life? Why?” she nearly screeched. If Jon had asked her what her deal was, or even Arya’s deal, her first instinct would _not_ have been to talk about an ex.

Who hears _what’s her deal_ and assumes they’re asking about dating?

“I dunno. I assumed that’s what he meant. Plus, it’s not like you have other deals. You work. That’s all you do. And apparently watch football, according to Jon.”

When Arya put it that way, Sansa agreed it made at least a little bit of sense.

“Robb got him a job on one of his and Jeyne’s projects.”

“Oh, good. I was telling him that he needed a job. He shot working at Cassel’s down.”

“It’s a sports bar!”

“That’s what he said.”

“Well, it’s a valid point. He said he wanted to help out with chores too.”

“He did that too, when he first moved in with us.”

“How do you remember that?” Sansa had been, what, ten, maybe, when Jon first moved in officially? Arya had been eight, at most.

“He used to do my chores. Mom and Dad wouldn’t give him his own, so he took over mine. Or help me with them.”

“You were eight. What chores did you even have?”

“Dunno. Setting the table, I think. Picking up toys.”

“You let Jon clean your room?”

“I was _eight_. I didn’t want to clean it myself.” Arya paused. “I think he did it to, like, earn his keep or something?” Her tone shifted.

“ _Oh,_ ” Sansa whispered. “He offered to pay rent, first, before he asking about chores.”

“What’d you say?”

“I told him no. But he’s cooking dinner tomorrow night. And picking up groceries.”

“Ooh, that almost sounds like a date.”

 _That’s what I thought,_ Sansa almost said. But it couldn’t be because he was Jon Snow, even if his shoulders hunched, and she was still probably the gawky teen with braces in his eyes. And he’d even said, it was fair. She’d cooked for him a few times now.

“It’s not. He’s just trying to be nice.”

“I know. I was giving you shit. It’s good though. It means he’s trying, right?”

“I hope so.”


	12. Jon

Jon followed Robb around a small ranch house on the other side of town from where the Starks all lived. It was closer to where he grew up.

Robb was explaining what all the marks on the walls meant, where he could swing his sledgehammer and where he couldn’t. Jon was trying to follow, but really, he wished Robb would just point him towards a wall and tell him to swing.

Now that he held the hammer in his hand, he was itching to use it.

“We’re gutting the kitchen, so you can start with the cabinets—they all come out. We removed the appliances and sink last week, so everything else can go. Then you can start on this wall, it’s coming down to make the space flow better…”

Then, finally, Robb left him alone and he swung the sledgehammer with every ounce of strength he’d ever had into the bottom set of cabinets in front of him.

The head of the hammer crashed through the wood. The door splintered. His shoulders burned from months of misuse.

It was almost like the burn he felt when he would spend hours in training at the start of preseason.

He swung again, bursting another cabinet, enjoying the burn.

* * *

By lunch, Jon was sore, and by the time they were packing up the tools and heading out, every muscle was stiff and ached in ways he hadn’t felt before.

He was tired in a way he hadn’t been in years.

Bone-tired.

He was half way to back to Sansa’s house, driving on autopilot, before he remembered that he had told Sansa that he would make dinner, and that required getting groceries.

When he had offered last night, he hadn’t really thought about how tired he would be after working for the first time, doing manual labor. Football was all he had ever done, and with him living with the Starks in high school, he hadn’t had to work an after-school job the way he might have done if he had been living on the other side of town.

It wasn’t the first time that thought had crossed his mind—how if the Starks hadn’t taken him in during high school, he would have had to eventually give up football in order to work. To help support his mother.

How differently his life would have turned out if they hadn’t stepped up when they did.

It was that thought that propelled Jon, exhausted as he was, to the grocery store. He knew Sansa would understand if he said he had been too tired to go pick up supplies, too tired to cook, but he wouldn’t do that to her. He couldn’t.

So instead, he found an old cap in his car and pulled it down as low as he could, and white knuckled the cart into the store.

Jon had not thought his through when he had offered to make dinner. He claimed he could follow a recipe but he’d never actually tried. In the city, his meals had either been catered, or prepared by the team’s nutritionist. He’d cook the meals himself, but not from scratch. Plus, it was all chicken breast and beans.

He never cooked a real meal. Not like the ones Sansa kept making him.

In front of the deli display, Jon pulled out his prepaid phone—the one that he was beginning to think of as his phone—and tried to look up easy recipes.

“Let me guess,” a female voice behind him said. Jon stiffened. “The wife sent you to the store but you forgot the list.”

Something about the idea of having a wife put him at ease. It might have been the implication that he clearly hadn’t been recognized. It might have been that, if this woman thought he was married, he probably wasn’t about to be told that he was her hall pass or something equally off putting.

The notion of being married, of being sent to the store by his wife, put him at enough ease to turn around.

He shoved his left hand in his pocket before he did, though.

“I offered to make dinner but I have no idea what to cook. I was hoping to have it ready when she got home from work, but it looks like everything takes more time than I have.”

“Breakfast for dinner’s always fun and quick,” the woman offered. She’d barely looked at him. Instead, she was leaning close to the glass, studying cuts of salmon. “But really, it’s the gesture that counts. I’d probably drop dead if my husband even offered to take care of dinner. Especially if it meant he’d actually cook something and not swing through a drive-thru on the way home.”

“Breakfast for dinner,” he muttered. “That’s a good idea. Thanks.” She murmured something and Jon steered his cart away, all without being actually recognized.

* * *

It wasn’t until Jon was driving home, supplies for chocolate chip and blueberry pancakes in his passenger’s seat, that the idea that he’d just pretended Sansa was his wife dawned on him.

He hadn’t corrected that woman. Hell, he’d even hidden his lack of wedding band.

He wanted to believe it was because of the security it granted him. Jon Snow, the football player, wasn’t married. Jon Snow, who was a playboy in the city, who was every married woman’s hall pass, free pass, absolutely wasn’t married. He wasn’t even attached. Never had a serious relationship.

But he knew it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just the fact no one would believe he was who he used to be if there was a ring on his finger. It was the idea itself of being attached. Of having someone.

It was _that_ security that had initially warmed him, but now, driving home with the lie behind him, left him cold.

* * *

Jon had just started batter, following the instructions on his phone, when Sansa came in.

It was a strange experience, being in her kitchen without her, before her.

He’d had to go through different cabinets to find what he was looking for, which made him a little uncomfortable. A little scared he might see something he wasn’t supposed to. Though he had no idea what, given it was the kitchen he was looking for stuff in. Not her bedroom, where Sansa had just disappeared into to change.

Jon pushed that thought away. Far away. The Starks were like family to him. He couldn’t afford to think about what he might find in Sansa’s nightstand drawer. Or that lacy pair of underwear he’d caught a glimpse of in her laundry basket yesterday. He was working very hard to forget about that.

When Sansa joined him again, she began setting out plates and utensils, moving around him quietly. The warm feeling from the grocery store came back because he knew that if someone who didn’t know any better saw them, they would see only a picture of domestic bliss.

“I don’t think I’ve had chocolate chip pancakes since high school,” Sansa said after they’d sat down. “Thanks for doing this, Jon.”

“I wanted to,” he said quietly, cutting is own stack into little squares.

She asked about his first day at the flip then, and Jon told her how good it had felt to break something. To feel the stretch and burn in his muscles. He talked more than he normally would have, because the more they talked, the longer they could stay at the island together. Once the dishes were done, he would go back downstairs, and right now he really didn’t want to.

Sansa talked more too, telling him about her day. It reminded him of the other night when she’d talked all about her life, college, her job.

They stayed at the island talking, even after their plates were cleared. Long enough that the syrup started to dry on their plates.

That’s what made Sansa suggest they start the dishes.

Like last night, Sansa stood beside him drying the dishes he handed her.

He could smell her shampoo over the scent of the dish soap. He thought it smelled like pears. Pears and nectarines.

He couldn’t remember the last time he paid attention to what a woman smelled like. Or even, the last time a woman smelled like something other than just _expensive_ or whatever she’d been drinking before—rosé, Prosecco, champagne.

Jon was trying not to inhale deeply. It would be too obvious that he was trying to smell her shampoo. Smell her.

A few moments later, he took a dried pan out of her hand, one that went above the stove, specifically so he could step away from her. He just didn’t realize the consequences of that until he was already reaching, cast iron skillet in hand, above his head.

His shoulder stung, far more than the burn he’d felt at the job site. He dropped his arm, and with the only strength left, he set the skillet on the counter with a clatter.

“Jon? Are you okay?”

He felt her warm hand against his shoulder instantly.

“I think I over did it with the sledgehammer,” he admitted honestly, rubbing his shoulder.

“I… I um, noticed your posture is different?” she said, voice no louder than the whisper of her leggings as she fidgeted behind him. “Your shoulders; they’re tense.”

Jon rolled his shoulders, his neck. She wasn’t wrong. He felt stiff. More stiff than he had since he stopped training with the rest of the team.

“I think you need a massage?”

He supposed she was right. He used to get massages with PT, with the team. He definitely always felt better after those, but he doubted he could find something similar in Winterfell.

“I…”

Jon looked at her for the first time since they started washing the dishes. Her face was red. Not pink, but red. Merlot red.

“You… You don’t mean?”

He didn’t like where his blood thought this was going.

“I… I have a deep tissue massager? It was an inside joke from some friends—” If possible, her face seemed to darken in color at this. “It worked when Arya pulled a muscle… But…I think you’ll need help to use it on your back?” Sansa whispered.

Okay, so this is _almost_ where his blood thought this was going. She was offering to massage him, albeit with some kind of tool, but still. It was too close to what parts of him had inferred. Parts of him he didn’t trust. Parts of him that had gotten him in trouble before.

But then he tried to move his arm again and realized, if he intended to do any work at the flip tomorrow, he should probably allow her to do whatever she wanted to him.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

“Okay? Well, um. Okay.” Sansa seemed suddenly nervous, which made Jon more nervous than he’d been when he agreed. “So when I used this with Arya, she laid on the floor in the living room. And, um. It works best without…fabric.”

“Fabric?” he choked.

“Your t-shirt.”

“Oh.”

She skirted from the room, fetching whatever a deep tissue massager was, so Jon moved to the living room. He wanted to spend more time with Sansa, more time out of the basement, but he wasn’t sure this was what he’d had in mind.

This seemed more… _intimate_ than washing dishes or having dinner together. Far more intimate.

Maybe it was just the idea of removing his shirt that made it seem that way.

Jon fought to think of this clinically, even has he stripped his torso and laid himself out bare on his stomach for Sansa, on her living room floor.

With his arms tucked to his sides, face turned toward the couch, and the knowledge that Sansa would be touching his bare back, Jon found himself strangely vulnerable. Even more so after she explained that for it to work best, she’d probably need to sit across his legs, and that the deep tissue massager she had plugged in and sounded like it vibrated.

But when she put the thing against his back, Jon cared about none of it.

He didn’t feel her thighs against his, or hear the sound of the machine vibrating. He didn’t remember seeing the dark blue lacy underwear yesterday, or smelling the pear and nectarine of her shampoo earlier in the evening.

He didn’t think of anything other than how good it felt to have that specific knot of muscles worked out of his back.

Even when her hand, her fingers, so warm, pressed against different spots, searching for where to knead next, he barely remembered that it was Sansa sitting atop him, and not the masseuse he was used to from the team.

He had zero concept of time, but he knew the longer Sansa pressed the machine to his back, the more vocal he became. He groaned as she loosened knots in his shoulders, moaned with each muscle worked from the flip this morning.

Normally, he’d be embarrassed beyond reason at Sansa hearing these noises, but the relief she brought him made him not give a fuck.

Eventually, she set the tool down, no longer buzzing, and worked his back with just her hands. He felt how she poked and prodded for knots, exploring him like she wanted to memorize the map of his muscles.

He hadn’t felt this loose, this relaxed, since before his injury. It was almost as though she had forced him to melt him into the floor.

“Jon? You okay?” she whispered, mouth too close to his ear and hands too warm on his shoulders. She still sat on his thighs.

“Uh huh,” he murmured, almost groggy.

“Do you feel better?” she asked, swinging her leg off him. Jon missed the warmth instantly.

His back did, but his pants felt too tight. He should not have responded that way to Sansa’s hands on his back, her voice in his ear.

Jon knew he took a moment too long before he sat up. Took a moment too long to pull the shirt over his head. He could fee her eyes on his chest.

But he did feel better, he couldn’t deny that the physical pain was gone.

Now all he felt was the coolness like he had after leaving the grocery store, realizing that he’d played along with Sansa being his wife.


	13. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I have this fic mostly mapped out now which should mean fairly regular updates.

Sansa’s fingers dug into Jon’s back, working a knot between his shoulder blade and spine. It felt too good to have her hands on his skin, to feel the strength beneath.

She knew she was drawing it out—she knew she wasn’t skilled enough or strong enough to be making much of a difference with just her fingers. She’d done everything she could with the deep-tissue massager. She just enjoyed having an excuse to touch him.

When Jon grew quiet, almost like he’d fallen asleep, she leaned forward, hands still on his shoulders.

“Jon? You okay?” Her voice was quieter than she expected it to be.

“Uh huh.”

“Do you feel better?” She sounded normal now that she was no longer sitting on him.

He didn’t respond, but start to push himself up. He paused, on his elbows, and for a second Sansa thought she’d made it worse. He rested his head on his forearms, almost in a plank position.

Seeing him in that position, his biceps flexed to hold himself up, spun Sansa’s head straight into the gutter.

She wondered what he’d look like in that position if she was looking up at him.

Jon sitting up, giving her a full view of his naked chest, didn’t help.

Sansa tore her eyes away before he could catch her staring.

“It feels much better. Thanks.”

He shifted, putting his back against the sofa. His eyes were focused on something on the other side of the room.

“Think you’ll be good to use the sledgehammer again tomorrow?” she asked, mostly just for something to say.

Jon’s eyes shifted back to her, meeting her eye for the first time since they were doing the dishes. She almost felt pinned in place with how earnest his gaze was.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be okay.”

“Good.”

* * *

The week passed mostly uneventfully—Jon joined her for dinner every night. On Friday, he surprised her by making the coffee before she made it to the kitchen.

Normally, her morning routine was to shower, moisturize, then start the coffee while in her robe with a towel around her hair.

Friday, she walked into the kitchen like she normally did, except Jon was at the sink, filling up the carafe.

“I was up early and thought I’d start the coffee…” he said, voice rough with sleep.

“Thanks. There’s more coffee filters in the drawer down there.”

She was looking at the water pouring into the pot, but she could feel Jon’s eyes on her. Her bathrobe only went halfway down her thighs.

When she was young and had that stupid crush on him, she always thought of him as an ass guy. Probably because of the cheerleaders in their flippy little skirts that were always hanging off of him. But she definitely caught him tracing the lines of her legs.

“You’re bleeding,” Jon whispered after a few seconds.

“What? Oh, damn it. I forgot to pick up new razors. Shit,” she hissed, swinging her foot onto the foot bar of one of the stools. Sure enough, there was a trickle of blood running from the outside of her knee halfway down her calf.

“Here.” Jon passed her a wet paper towel.

“Oh. Thanks.” She wiped the blood. “Do you have any fun plans this weekend?”

Jon snorted, a rare, unguarded emotion breaking through.

“No. You?”

“Couple movies came out on streaming this week I wanted to see. Probably just eat junk food and binge them.”

“That sounds like fun.”

His voice was quiet again, more sincere.

“You’re welcome to join. It’s a lot of dramas and rom-coms, but you can definitely join if you want to. You’re always welcome.”

“I might take you up on it,” he said quietly, just as the coffee maker beeped. She watched Jon pull out the travel mug that had basically become his over the course of the week, and her favorite mug—the twenty-four-ounce ceramic teacup that had a pattern of weirwood leaves at the bottom. He filled hers first and poured the rest into his.

“Thank you.” She took the mug and sipped it, ready to turn back to finish getting ready for work.

“Hey, Sansa?” She turned, seeing Jon two steps down the stairs. “Text me what kind of razors you use. I’ll pick them up on my way home.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

It wasn’t until she was back in her room, brushing out her hair, that she realized that Jon had referred to her house as _home._

* * *

Jon had beaten her home every night since he started working on the flipping team with Robb. Every night she had come in to find him in the kitchen, either starting dinner, cleaning something, or doing some other chore that she had either put off or forgotten about.

He wasn’t there when she got home on Friday, but she knew Robb liked to take the crew out on Fridays for a beer sometimes, so she didn’t worry about it.

Instead, she took the liberty of knowing Jon wasn’t home to strip out of her work skirt halfway down the hallway instead of once she was securely in her room, like she normally would. She also snaked her bra out from beneath her blouse, tossing it lazily in the direction of her closet.

She was still in the hallway, halfway between her bedroom and the bathroom, removing her makeup with a wipe, when she heard the garage door open.

“Shit.”

Sansa ran into her room, shutting the door firmly behind her. Only one eye cleaned of eyeliner and mascara, she threw on leggings and a hoodie, one large enough to hide the fact she wasn’t wearing a bra.

“Sansa?” she heard Jon call through the door. “I picked up your razors.”

“Oh, yeah. Thanks. Could you just put them on the bathroom counter?”

“Sure.”

She heard him move away and waited until his footsteps disappeared entirely before she scurried across to the bathroom to take the rest of her makeup off.

The razors on the counter were the exact ones she’d asked Jon to pick up. For some reason, the sight of them made her smile.

Once her makeup was fully off and her hair pulled back into a messy knot, she found Jon in the kitchen, unpacking bags of food.

“What’s all this?”

“Junk food and snacks for movie watching,” he shrugged. “I tried to get stuff that you used to eat at your sleepovers.”

Sansa’s eyebrows rose and Jon turned the lightest shade of rose.

“You remembered what I ate at sleepovers?”

He shrugged again, turning back so that she couldn’t see his face.

“I was going to shower, then we can start the first movie?”

“You’re going to watch them with me? They’re really soapy. One I have picked out is a costume period drama.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Ball gowns, gloves, chaperoned dates?”

This time he glanced at her like he was still confused.

“Maybe we start with that one?” he suggested.

“Okay. Yeah.”

Jon looked at her once more, over his shoulder, before folding up the grocery bags, putting them back by the door, and disappearing downstairs.

Sansa was still stuck on the idea that he was volunteering to watch all of these movies with her, that he went to pick up not only her razors but all of her favorite childhood junk foods.

When Arya had called last Sunday, they had half-joked about him cooking her dinner being a date. Sansa had known better, and quickly pushed that idea away.

But this, though?

Holing up together to watch dramas and rom-coms for a weekend? Picking up her favorite junk food?

This felt far more date-like.

This was Jon, though _, Jon Snow_. Who spent most of his twenties in the city, famous, and going on dates with women in cocktail dresses and stilettos at rooftop bars and restaurants that took reservations nearly a year in advance.

Jon Snow wouldn’t consider something as elementary as this a date.

* * *

Sansa was curled in the corner of her couch, wrapped in her hoodie, halfway through a bag of chocolate pretzels, trying to ignore the fact that Jon was only a cushion square away and there was a sex scene on the TV.

When she had put on the period drama, she did not think there would be anything this steamy in it. She thought it would all be stolen glances and briefest grazes of fingers. All subtext. She hadn’t realized there would be anything quite this erotic.

She wanted to look at him but she was scared that she would turn maroon as soon as she did.

Especially since she choked on her pretzel when the male lead had rucked up the petticoats and began going down on her.

Sansa was not an innocent. She had one semi-serious boyfriend in college, and there was the prick she’d dated last year who couldn’t handle that she had been promoted over him. She’d also had a handful of one-night stands and drunken party hook ups.

But watching this scene with Jon less than six feet away from her made her blush like a virgin.

Mostly because it was all too easy to see Jon doing this very act, except the image her imagination provided wasn’t so much gowns and a bookcase, but a cocktail dress and penthouse windows.

Sansa’s crush on Jon had been a childish one. Her fantasies then included confessions of love via notes passed in class, holding hands in the hallway, and being kissed in a pretty dress.

They weren’t the fantasies she had about her crushes in high school or college.

But she couldn’t push the picture from her head. And it made everything in her burn.

She wished she started this movie with wine or whiskey. Not a cup of tea.

But then again, if she’d had any alcohol in her, she’d probably do something stupid, like she had last weekend when she told Jon she’d watched all of his games.

Finally, finally, the scene was over.

It took everything in her not to reach for her phone to see if there would be another one in the movie. So she could be prepared and excuse herself when it came up.

But she thought that would look too suspicious. She thought Jon would figure out what she was doing. She doubted he’d ask or call her on it, but she didn’t want to run the risk.

* * *

They were halfway through their second movie by the time Sansa felt fully recovered from the sex scene. She might have checked the rating on the next movie she chose to make sure she wouldn’t be surprised again. Nothing in a PG-13 movie could be as bad as what had been in the first one.

Jon hadn’t said much since they started the movies. He’d only asked her to pause it occasionally so he could go to the bathroom, and if she wanted anything from the kitchen.

She couldn’t tell if he liked all the sappy romance and drama or if he was putting up with it because he didn’t want to be alone.

* * *

“You can pick out the next one,” Sansa said, tossing him the remote when she got up to use the bathroom and get a new drink.

“I thought you had a list you were working through.”

“But they’re all really sappy. We can watch an action or thriller as a palate cleanser.”

Jon didn’t say anything, but he took the remote so Sansa left him to find something and went to pee.

When she came back a few minutes later, drink in hand, he had what was clearly a drama queued up.

“This is my pick,” he said, voice firm.

She glanced at him. At the start of the night, he had been squished against the arm of the sofa, hands in his lap and both feet flat on the floor. Now, he had both feet propped on the coffee table and he leaned more towards the center of the sofa than the arm.

“Okay.”

It was a drama she’d seen before—but she didn’t mind. It had a few good twists and she heard Jon’s sharp inhale when one of them was revealed.

“Have you seen this?” he asked, pausing it when she didn’t react.

“Yeah. When it first came out.”

“You should’ve said something.”

“I liked it. I was okay watching it again.”

“I didn’t know dramas were this intense,” he said quietly, pressing play.

Sansa hadn’t thought about it before, but she realized after that comment that Jon probably didn’t watch a lot of drama or romance movies. She was sure he was mostly friends with guys—football guys—and doubted he had been on a date to a movie since high school.

She remembered when he first started staying in the basement, how he mostly watched all those shitty CGI superhero movies.

Maybe the catharsis was good for him.

* * *

Halfway into the next movie—another period drama, one Jon picked—Sansa felt her eyes start to droop. She’d shifted at some point so she was curled sideways, her head on the arm and feet halfway onto the middle cushion.

There was a blanket on the back of the couch but it was half behind Jon and she didn’t want to draw attention to it. She didn’t want him to think she was falling asleep because he’d probably offer to pause the movie. He’d probably disappear downstairs.

He’d probably disappear for the rest of the weekend out of fear or embarrassment or whatever it was that compelled him to spend so much time alone.

So she stuck her fingers between her thighs, curled her knees to her chest, and slid her toes into the space between the cushions.

* * *

Sansa woke up covered with a blanket, a kink in her neck, and her feet pressed against something warm.

The TV was playing a movie she didn’t recognize but the volume was turned way down.

She half sat up, fully expecting to see the other side of the sofa empty. Instead, Jon was curled up on the other side, the blanket just reaching his knees. He must have thrown it over them after she’d fallen asleep. He’d given her most of the blanket.

His arms were tucked into his chest and his curls hung in his eyes. Sansa thought he looked young like that.

That’s when she realized that the warm thing her feet were pressed against were Jon’s thighs. Her toes were between his legs, right above his knees.

Sansa didn’t want to move and accidentally wake him, so she adjusted the pillow beneath her, gave Jon a little more of the blanket, and kept her toes where they were.


	14. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italics are flashback

Jon woke up to a bright light shining in his eyes. When he opened them, he couldn’t remember where he was. There was a TV that was on the _are you still watching_ screen. He was half covered in a blanket.

It wasn’t until he sat up and saw Sansa asleep on the other side of the sofa that he realized he was in her living room and that’s why it took him so long to place it.

Their legs were tangled in the middle, beneath the shared blanket.

Jon couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept with somebody like this—actually slept—with another human body touching his.

One that wasn’t naked or in some skimpy lingerie.

But he could remember with stark clarity the last woman to spend the night in his bed. The one that pushed him to leave the city.

The woman with hair a similar color to Sansa’s. He hadn’t realized it before. Not until he saw the rising sun streak her hair like it had the other woman’s.

_Jon had spent the last week avoiding going out. The last time he tried to leave for a date—barely a date, more like a hook up—he’d been papped and the tabloids and sports reporters had run stories about his string of women. About how it was the sixth girl in three weeks. About how many women he’d been photographed with since his contracted was dropped._

_He didn’t understand—he’d always been photographed with lots of women. He never dated for longer than the season and it never got serious. When they started leaving more than a toothbrush and a spare pair of underwear is when he made sure to end it._

_The press had joked about how him being a womanizer even when he was a rookie. When it looked like the Wolves were headed for the Superbowl, so many headlines ran puns about how Superbowl rings would be the only type of ring anyone would see from Jon Snow._

_Only now that he wasn’t a player anymore, his dates apparently made him look sad and desperate. Unhealthy, some reporters said._

_It was why Jon had initially switched to dating apps for a few weeks, except any woman who looked at his profile knew exactly who he was._

_And Jon didn’t think he wanted to be Jon Snow anymore._

_And so he snuck out. Shoved his curls in a ball cap, a UCB one instead of a Wolves one he normally wore. He went out the back of the building, wearing a bulky hoodie and ripped jeans. He tried not to look like the Jon Snow that always ended up on the magazines in the grocery checkout._

_Instead of going to any of the clubs he normally went to, he headed to the opposite side of the city._

_One where he didn’t think he’d be recognized._

_He ended up at a hole-in-the-wall bar with sticky floors and no such thing as top-shelf._

_Jon sat at the end of the bar and ordered three fingers of whiskey._

_He was halfway through his drink when a redhead sat next to him._

_“Scotch on the rocks, please.”_

_Jon snorted._

_“Think they got scotch here?”_

_The redhead laughed and told the bartender that any whiskey was fine._

_“Did you go there?” she asked, pointing to his hat. Jon forgot he was wearing it._

_“Oh. Yeah.”_

_“Me too. What year did you graduate?”_

_He told her. She’d graduated two years before._

_“So we were there at the same time. Wonder if we ever had any classes together?”_

_They chatted about UCB and different classes, professors. Football didn’t come up once and it was the easiest conversation Jon had had in months._

_Three drinks in, her foot was touching his beneath the bar and he was asking if she’d like to come back to his place._

_They nearly hooked up in the elevator riding up to his apartment._

_“Wow, nice place,” she said once he opened the door. “Must cost a fortune.”_

_This was too close to_ what do you do for a living _. Jon didn’t want to answer any questions like that._

_So he took her by the waist, propped her on the back of the sofa, his hands sliding up her legs, and made sure she didn’t ask any questions._

_The first time Jon woke up, she was naked beside him, the early morning light streaking her hair._

_It was the first time Jon had hooked up with someone without using football or his name. They never touched the subject, never exchanged names._

_It was the first time someone had been interested in him and not Jon Snow._

_He fell back asleep with a smile on his face._

_The second time Jon woke up, she wasn’t beside him. He got up, still naked, and found her dressed, sitting on the sofa._

_On the coffee table in front of her were his playbooks he hadn’t returned yet. Open. She had her phone out, taking pictures._

_“W-what are you doing?”_

_She glanced at him. There was nothing flirty or warm in her face like there had been last night._

_She continued taking pictures._

_“You can’t take pictures of that. Those could get me in a lot of trouble,” he tried again._

_“Cause you haven’t returned them? Shouldn’t you have done that as soon as your contract was dropped?”_

_Jon’s brain was sluggish. He hadn’t realized what it meant that she’d had the playbooks. That she was taking pictures of them._

_That she’d known to look for them._

She knew who he was.

_He was frozen._

_She took one more picture and flipped the books closed._

_“Think I’ve gotten all I need from you.”_

_“Y-you…” His head was pounding. He’d been numb and hollow for weeks but this was different. He felt warm with the emptiness. Hot. Sick._

_He was going to be sick._

_“Did you think I didn’t know who you were last night? Especially after you brought me back here? Like anyone at that bar could afford a place like this?”_

_She’d known who he was the whole time._

_The woman approached him. Her nails like claws landed on his bare chest._

_“C’mon, Jon Snow, you’ve gotta know that this is all you’re good for now.” She waved her phone, taunting. “That, and a surprisingly decent fuck. That knee certainly doesn’t slow you down there.”_

_“Get the fuck out,” he gasped._

_“Gladly. See you, Jon Snow.”_

_She flounced out and Jon ran for his toilet once the door clicked shut._

_He dry heaved into the bowl._

This is all you’re good for now. This is all you’re good for now. This is all you’re good for now.

_Once Jon could sit up again, he called Tarly and told him he was heading North._

Jon felt the bile rise in his throat and he was off the sofa before he could worry about waking Sansa.

He retched into the toilet, memories coming out with the sick.

When his stomach was empty and his muscles stopped quaking, he ran, stopping only for shoes from the basement, and he was out the door.

* * *

Jon had intended to go for a run. That had been his thought when he left. That a run would calm him down.

Instead, Jon found himself miles from Sansa’s house. Miles from her house and still going.

* * *

“Jon?” Robb answered immediately.

“Hey, um. Can I stay with you for a few days?”

“Uh. Yeah. Sure, I guess. Do you need the address?”

“I, uh, actually need a ride. I’m in town.”

“Did your car break down?”

“No, no. I ran here.”

“Text me where you’re at. I’ll come pick you up. You need to swing into Sansa’s for anything?”

“No.”

“’Kay. I’ll see you in a few.”

Robb hung up. Jon leaned back against the bench. He hadn’t mentioned to Robb that he’d left Sansa’s early this morning and it was currently dark out.

When Robb’s SUV pulled up, Jon knew he looked a mess. He hadn’t showered before he left, and his mouth tasted like death.

Robb opened his mouth as soon as Jon hopped in, but Jon cut him a look.

“Jeyne’s heating up some dinner. And I’ll pull out the sofa for you.”

“Thanks. I need a shower though. And some clothes.”

“Okay.”

* * *

Jeyne sat at the kitchen table with him, rubbing her watermelon sized stomach. Robb was in the living room, putting sheets on the pull out.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” he said quietly, eating the roast she had warmed up for him.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. We don’t have a lot of space, but we thought something like this could happen if you stayed with Sansa.”

Jon stopped chewing.

“Something like…what?”

“Oh, sorry. I just assumed… Well, you know, with that crush she used to have on you. We just thought…”

 _What crush_? Jon nearly blurted. But he didn’t because Jeyne had acted like he was supposed to have known about it.

And because he was trying to figure out what the hell she thought had happened.

“Maybe not though. I mean, that was middle school, Robb said. Years ago. I’m sure she’s over it by now.”

“Right. Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For everyone who commented on how much they loved the sweetness and domesticity of the last few chapters--I apologize.


	15. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi,
> 
> I did not realize the last chapter would spark quite this level of discussion. 
> 
> Jeyne’s comment is going to be further discussed in Jon’s next PoV chapter, but just to clarify:
> 
> 1\. That comment was never meant to be as malicious as everyone seems to have taken it
> 
> 2\. Jeyne has never met Jon before (it is explicitly discussed how Jon’s never came back to Winterfell after starting college--even for Robb and Jeyne’s wedding). There are only a few things she really knows about Jon. A) he’s a famous football player, B) he used to live with the Starks, C) Sansa had a crush on him as a kid.  
> Given that information, her making the leap she did isn’t impossible. 
> 
> 3\. Consider that Jeyne is an outsider in the Stark family. She might be Stark by marriage, but Jon, who is not a Stark, nor seen any of them in 10-ish years, is less of an outsider than she is. Also she’s in her third trimester and this famous football player is suddenly crashing on her sofa.

Sansa woke up on the sofa, alone.

She assumed Jon had woken up, found that they had been asleep together, and bolted. She should’ve expected it, after the massage earlier this week and spending all night watching those romantic movies. She should’ve braced herself for it.

Except she didn’t.

And it opened a dull ache in her.

She figured he needed space, so she clicked off the TV and went to shower.

* * *

Late afternoon, Sansa decided to do her laundry. It gave her an excuse to check in on Jon and she needed to get it done anyway.

In the basement, she was expecting to see Jon crashed out on the sofa or to have retreated back into his action-packed movies and beer.

Or maybe even napping in bed.

Except he wasn’t on the sofa. And the bathroom door was open.

So was his bedroom door.

And the bed was empty.

That’s when Sansa realized his shoes were gone.

She called Arya as soon as the washing machine was started.

“Is Jon with you?”

“No?”

“I’m coming over.”

* * *

“Sansa, what happened?” Arya asked as soon as she was inside her parents’ house.

“I was sure he’d be here. I didn’t think he had other places to go.”

“What happened?”

“I’m… I’m not sure if anything did?”

It wasn’t until she was in front of Arya that she realized she could be overreacting. She knew Jon had been running. He could have gone for a run.

She didn’t know that he just took off.

“Sansa?” Ned asked, coming into the foyer. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”

“It, um. Wasn’t planned. Sorry. I just… I think I’m overreacting.”

“Did something happen with Jon?” Arya’s tone implied that _something_ to be like what happened in one of the movies last night.

“Not like what you’re thinking,” Sansa snapped.

“I’m not following.” It took everything Sansa had to not roll her eyes at her dad.

“Jon and I feel asleep watching movies on my sofa last night. When I woke up, he was gone. I thought he was just downstairs but when I went down to do laundry he wasn’t there. His shoes are gone. I know he goes for runs, but…”

_But I thought we were actually becoming friends this week. I thought he would have let me know if he was leaving, a text, a note._

“Damn it, Jon. Still running away,” Ned muttered before leaving the two girls alone.

“‘Still running away?’ What the hell does that mean?” Sansa questioned, looking at Arya. Arya was staring after Ned.

“Did Jon run away when we were kids? Or is he talking about UCB and the city?”

“I don’t remember him running away. Wouldn’t Mom and Dad have made a big deal about it if they did?”

“Definitely. They were pissed when I forgot to text them that I was staying over at Gendry’s. And that was last year. If Jon didn’t come home, especially when we were kids, I’m sure would’ve scared them.”

“What did Jon run from, though? Like, why run away from us?”

Arya shrugged.

“Hey… Do you think it’s weird that Mom and Dad haven’t reached out to Jon much since he’s been back? I mean, they took him in as a kid and now that he’s back, they haven’t done anything?”

“I…”

Sansa hadn’t thought about it. She had assumed Ned had reached out privately. Catelyn had always been more reserved and more hesitant with Jon, so that didn’t surprise her as much as Ned did.

She couldn’t believe that Ned hadn’t reached out.

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Well, I mean he’s just got that weird burner prepaid phone?”

“Nope, I gave them that number when you gave it to me.”

“But… Jon came here first, didn’t he? Before you brought him to mine. And he was painting over here just last weekend.”

“Yeah, and the first time I was the only one he talked to. I think he talked to Dad last time, but it must’ve only been for a few minutes.”

Sansa didn’t know what to say.

“How do we know Dad didn’t and Jon just didn’t want his help? He barely wanted mine.”

Arya shrugged.

“You okay, though? You sounded kinda freaked when you called,” Arya mentioned, her face softening.

“Yeah, I think so. It was just weird, having him around so much and then disappearing.”

“I bet.”

“You think he’s okay though, right?”

“I don’t think he’s lying in a ditch anywhere, if that’s what you mean. Did Robb ever give him the number for that therapist?”

“He said he did.”

“Maybe one of us should see if he’s called. Or talk him into it.”

“I vote Robb. Make him do a bit of heavy lifting.”

“Agreed. You staying for dinner? Mom’s making lasagna.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Arya headed towards the kitchen, but Sansa hung back, pulling out her phone. She called Robb.

“Hey, is Jon with you?”

“No, why?”

“I wasn’t sure if he’d gone for a run or if he… Ran.”

“Ran?”

“We fell asleep hanging out on the sofa. When I woke up in the morning, he wasn’t there. I wasn’t sure if he just needed space or if he… left. Dad mentioned something about him running in high school? Do you know what that’s about?”

“Going to UCB and not coming back?”

“You don’t remember anything else?”

“Nope. Hey, Jeyne just got home. I’ve gotta go. But I’ll call you if I hear something from him.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

-

Sansa was still at her parents’, hanging out with Arya and the boys after dinner, when Robb called.

“Jon just called me,” Robb said, voice echoing in a way that she knew meant he was driving.

Sansa glanced down at her phone. She’d texted Jon earlier, after coming over to the Starks’.

_Hey I’m over at my parents for dinner if you get back from your run and want to join. Otherwise there’s a frozen pizza in the freezer you’re welcome to. Text me when you’re back and I’ll head home._

There was no reply.

“Is he okay?” she asked.

“Not sure. He asked to stay with us for a few days, and apparently needed a ride from town.”

“He _ran_ into town?”

“Guess so.”

“Did he say anything else? About last night?”

“No. But, Sansa, I doubt this has anything to do with you. He probably just finally charged that damn phone or got a call from his agent. You said you fell asleep watching movies?”

A tension she hadn’t fully recognized loosened in her chest. She knew, logically, it was probably that he needed space. That what they’d done this past week was too close to playing house. But a small part of her wondered if her not going to bed when she woke up in the middle of the night pushed him over the edge.

But Robb was right. She had no idea when he left. He could have easily gone down stairs at any point in the night after she woke up the first time. Hell, she regretted not getting up to sleep in her own bed because of the strain in her neck and shoulder. Something else that wasn’t her definitely could have been the reason he ran.

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad you guys are hanging out. Maybe he just needs a few days of guy time or something.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“I’ll text you once I get back home.”

“Okay. Thanks, Robb. OH—hey, wait. Did you give Jon the number for that therapist?”

“Yeah, after Cassel’s.”

“Can you check in with him about it? See if you can get him to call? Dad’s comment about the running… It makes me wonder if there’s more to it than football and his fucked knee.”

“Sure. Might wait till tomorrow or Monday, but yeah. I’ll talk to him about it.”

“Thanks.”

Rickon won the hand they were playing soon after Robb’s call and Arya yanked her from the room once he had.

“Is he with Robb?”

“Yeah, he’s staying with him for a few days,” Sansa shrugged.

“What else happened last night?” Arya questioned as soon as they were safely shut in her bedroom.

“I swear, we fell asleep watching movies. I mean, they were romantic dramas. And there was a very explicit sex scene in one. And I might have slept with my feet on his legs. But nothing _serious_ happened.”

Arya looked like she didn’t believe her in the slightest.

“I might have given his massage last week—”

“You WHAT?”

“Calm down. It was with the deep tissue massager I used on you. After his first day on the flip. He nearly dropped a skillet on his foot. It wasn’t sexual.”

Arya raised her eyebrows like she wanted to make a joke but wisely didn’t comment.

“Maybe he finally charged that damn phone? Had a message he didn’t like?”

“That’s what Robb said.”

“Because it makes sense.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Want me to come over and sulk in your basement so it feels like he’s still there?”

“You know, he’s been in charge of making dinner most nights now. You going to do that too?”

“Um, no.”

-

When Sansa got home that night, the house was quiet. Not much quieter than it normally was—like the quiet right after the washing machine or dish washer shut off after running for a while. Almost the same, but noticeable.

There was a certain freedom she felt, though, when she realized she forgot to make the coffee thirty minutes after getting into bed. If Jon were there, even in the basement, she would’ve changed or pulled something on over her braless boobs in her tank top that didn’t quite cover her pantlessness. She hadn’t walked around in her underwear since Jon showed up.

She hadn’t done _a lot_ of things since Jon showed up.

Maybe him staying at Robb’s for a few days would be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise Jon's next chapter has some answers. And the next 3-5 chapters will reveal a lot about their pasts and Ned's comment in this chapter.


	16. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me hell. I restructured it so many times and blew my outline to hell in the process so it's anyone's guess how many chapters this ends up being.

After all of three hours at Robb’s, he missed Sansa’s basement. He was very exposed out there in the living room and the pullout was not even in the realm of comfortable. He had been lying on it, trying to sleep, for hours, but he couldn’t get comfortable.

But the fact that he’d run out on her—left while she was sleeping—and the fact he never texted her back after she’d texted him a few hours ago left him scared to face her.

He’d gotten too comfortable too quickly.

It was like when he had first moved in with the Starks his freshman year. He had spent weekends there on and off through elementary school and middle school. He ate dinner there more than he did at home, but it was different after the formality of the guest room becoming his.

After his mom signed her parental rights over to the Starks.

But the first night he had spent there with all of his stuff, when he woke up and went downstairs for breakfast and the question _what time do you need to be home_ was never asked, it was felt too right too quickly. It felt like home and he hadn’t even lived there officially for twenty-four hours.

It had filled him with guilt.

Especially since it was his fault it happened. He complained to his coach that he couldn’t go to the football camp over the summer—even though Ned had paid for it—because his mom hadn’t signed the form for it. That’s the reason his coach went over between his mom’s shifts to get it signed. It’s why she met with Ned while he was away and decided that Ned and the Starks could give him something she couldn’t.

They could give him football.

The happiness of having that, of living with the Starks had scared him, even at fourteen. He might’ve run, if the Starks hadn’t been his connection to football. If he wasn’t twisted with guilt for wanting to stay with them.

For not wanting to go back to his mom.

But he hadn’t. And he couldn’t give up football. Not after his mom gave him up so he could have it.

Jon rolled over, grabbing his phone from where it was charging on the floor.

He’d started to text Sansa no less than ten times since leaving but he couldn’t figure out what to say.

 _I threw up after waking up with you because you have red hair and so did the last woman I slept with_ didn’t sound good no matter how he tried to phrase it.

And that was only half of it.

_After I saw you blush at the movie, I couldn’t help but wonder if you’d turn that color everywhere—if I did what the guy in the movie was doing._

No, keeping that train of thought out of Sansa’s house was for the best.

He typed out something simple, basic, and hit send before he could think about it anymore.

**Sorry I bolted.**

Sansa’s bubbles appeared after almost ten minutes of him chewing his thumb off waiting for a response.

_It was the sex scene in that movie, wasn’t it?_

His heart fell through his stomach— _how’d you know_ he wanted to ask. It was part of it. A much smaller part. But part. Because it had definitely gotten him hard. Painfully so. He had been scared Sansa would see it. He had been hoping she did.

That had scared him more.

The thoughts he’d had after he’d seen her blush scared him worse.

But she couldn’t have known that. She was probably just trying to give him an out.

**Ha, that was awkward.**

**But no. It was something else.**

**Something stupid.**

He sent the three texts in rapid succession. He didn’t know how to explain it to her, and he really didn’t want to, but he wanted her to know it had nothing to do with her.

**It was football related.**

_I thought it might be._

_But seriously, you’re okay?_

_Not at all,_ he thought.

**Yeah.**

There was another long delay before she sent another text. Jon felt his eyes falling shut waiting for her response.

_Should I have Robb pick up your stuff?_

**No,** he sent immediately. **I’ll be back soon.**

_Okay. Good night, Jon._

**Night.**

* * *

Sunday afternoon Jeyne was out on some pregnancy spa thing with her sister or cousin or something, so Robb took Jon to Cassel’s for lunch.

They spent their first beer pretending to watch the golf game that was playing on the bar’s TV and eating their burgers.

When Cassel came to get them a second round, Robb ordered a flight of shots instead.

“We’re talking,” he announced.

“Doesn’t one of us have to drive?”

“Texted Arya. She’ll come get us whenever we’re ready.”

“What about work tomorrow?”

“Already called us both in sick. Easy to do when your name’s on the company.”

His stomach knotted whenever he thought about Sansa and her red hair but at least she didn’t make him talk. He felt better just by being with her. He didn’t feel that same thing here with Robb.

But he still didn’t really want to talk.

Which was probably why Robb had ordered the shots.

“Why’d you come North?”

“Fucked up my knee.”

“Yeah, and stayed in the city for almost a year before you came North. Something made you leave the city.”

Jon took his first shot before he answered.

“Got picked up in a bar by a girl and took her home. Thought she didn’t know who I was. Next morning found her taking pictures of the playbooks I hadn’t returned yet. Said it wasn’t like I was good for much else anymore,” Jon summarized.

“Shit.”

“Yup.”

“Did you ever find out what she used them for?”

Jon shook his head.

“Tarly called after I got up here. She didn’t try to sell them or anything. Best guess is she was trying to pass them along to another team, probably one we knocked out of the conference for the playoffs—Dreadfort or Wildlings or something. ‘Cept—Tarly pointed out once I’d gotten up here—that the books she looked at still listed me on the team and plays. They were outdated. So, who knows? Maybe she did try to sell them and no one bought them ‘cause they were no good.”

Knowing that hadn’t made him feel all that much better. _This is all you’re good for now_ haunted him all the way North.

Robb downed his first.

“Why’d you leave Sansa’s?”

“Sansa and I fell asleep watching movies on the sofa. Woke up in the morning and saw Sansa’s hair. Woman I picked up had red hair. She was the last person I’d woken up with, before Sansa.”

Second shot down.

He watched Robb closely, expecting him to react. Expecting something like: _We’re going to circle back to the fact you woke up with my sister._

He didn’t react at all.

“Any other reasons?”

Robb took his second shot.

There were—how quickly Sansa’s felt like home, how he felt when the woman at the grocery store thought he was cooking for his wife, how he felt when he thought about the idea of Sansa being his wife, how he felt when he remembered how she flushed during the sex scene in that movie—

“Nope.”

Jon poured picked up the third shot and threw it back.

“M’kay.”

Robb picked up his third, but set it down just a few inches from where it was.

“Why’d you leave?” This was asked more to the glass than Jon.

“I just told y—”

“Not Sansa’s. Why’d you leave Winterfell?”

“Because we graduated? And I had a full ride to UCB? You left too, if I recall.”

“But _I came back._ Before I fucked my shoulder. Birthdays and Christmases and summer vacation. I came back for all of them. You didn’t.”

Of all the questions he thought Robb would ask, this was the one Jon was least prepared for. He left soon after their high school graduation, but only a few weeks before Robb left for U of T. It wasn’t like he had ran as soon as he’d gotten his diploma.

“Travel was expensive.”

“Mom and Dad flew me back from the Twins. They could’ve gotten you from Castle Back easily. At least for Christmas or summer break.”

“I didn’t want to ask anything more of them,” he offered quietly. It wasn’t the whole answer, but it was enough to shut Robb up for a few minutes. It was enough of the truth.

They both swallowed their shots.

“Did you ever call that other number I gave you?”

“No.”

“Did you think about it?”

“Yeah,” he answered honestly. He had when Robb had first given it to him almost two weeks ago. But with working on the flip and playing house with Sansa had distracted him. Made him believe he was getting better. “I should call. I will. This weekend.”

“You don’t have to. I set up an appointment for you. Tomorrow morning, which is why we’re both sick. I’ll drop you back at Sansa’s after.”

“You set up an appointment for me?”

“Yep. Didn’t think you’d do it yourself. Which is also why I’m driving you and why I’m not hauling your ass back to Sansa’s tonight. Sansa’s clearly been good for you, but she’s too gentle with you. You clearly need something other than gentle.”

The phrase _she’s too gentle with you_ echoed briefly in his head. With the shots he’d just consumed, the thought that followed was _wonder what it’d be like if she were rough with me_.

Jon had to fight to control his face while talking to her brother.

The shots hit him quickly, warming him and loosening his tongue.

“I got a question for you,” Jon said, peeling at the label of the beer bottle. “When I came yesterday, Jeyne said something. About you all thought something _like this_ could happen if I stayed with Sansa. Something about a crush she had on me?”

Robb sighed, rubbing his eyes.

“She said that? Shit.” He downed his last shot. “So one thing you should know about Jeyne is she really doesn’t get our humor—especially Rickon’s and Arya’s. Last year Rickon was irritated with Mom and made some joke—that was funny but you know you wouldn’t repeat it. Jeyne, trying to be funny, I think, said it at dinner. In front of Mom. It was awkward.”

“I bet.”

“After we came here that night, Arya was pretty drunk so she crashed at mine. You and Sansa had been dancing together, and seemed pretty close, so Arya made some kind of joke about maybe you staying with her will have a _happy ending_ for everyone.” Robb wiggled his eyebrows in case Jon missed his exaggerated tone on _happy_ _ending_. “Jeyne asked what she meant, I explained that she’d had a crush on you as a kid—like middle school, very young, don’t tell her I told you—and that you two seemed friendlier than we were expecting. She got you to dance. She must’ve conflated the two and the idea of the crush. I’m sorry. I’m sure she didn’t mean anything by it, but I’ll talk to her about it.”

Jon could definitely see how, without all the pieces, and showing up like he did, Jeyne could make that leap.

“Arya hadn’t meant anything with her joke either. We just thought you both looked happy dancing together. And that’s all any of us want—you to be happy. Arya just thinks you seem happier with Sansa.”

It must’ve been all the shots and the beer because that statement almost sounded like both Arya and Robb thought he and Sansa would be good together.

-

When Robb dropped Jon off in front of the building, it wasn’t what Jon expected. He was expecting a hospital. Something that was not a house-like building. The signs said that Dr. Mormont’s entrance was the side door.

The plaque beside it read: Jeor Mormont, NCC, PsyD.

He knocked hesitantly.

He did not expect a burly old man to open the door.

“You must be Jon Snow.” The doctor stuck out his hand.

The _must be_ and quick handshake lessened Jon’s nerves.

Inside, the office was all rich woods, leather furniture, and bookshelves. It looked more like a smoking lounge, Jon thought, than a therapist’s office.

“Can I get you something? Coffee, water, tea?”

“Scotch?” Jon asked, half joking, and shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

Dr. Mormont looked at him, appraising, over his shoulder as he fiddled with the little coffee maker in the corner.

“Water’s fine, thanks.”

“Sure thing. Take a seat.”

There was no desk, just some leather armchairs and a coffee table. Jon sat on the side that faced more of the room.

“So,” Dr. Mormont said, placing a glass of water in front of Jon, and a mug in front of himself.

Jon waited for him to continue.

Dr. Mormont took a spit from his mug and Jon mirrored his gesture. The doctor still didn’t speak.

“So…?” Jon offered once he became uncomfortable.

“So, you’re here because of football.”

“Yep.”

Dr. Mormont stared at him and Jon felt his good knee start to bounce.

“Is football the only thing that brought you here?”

“My friend, Robb, saw you in college when he screwed up his shoulder.”

“So that brought you here?”

“Well, he literally drove me, so.”

“O-okay. So. I don’t normally ask this question, but it feels like you’re expecting me to ask it. How do you feel about not being able to play?”

Jon had expected that question, or something similar, but he hadn’t considered his answer.

He had never been asked it. How he felt was always assumed— _must suck, so sorry,_ etc. He never paused to figure out exactly how he felt about never being able to play again.

It had been too raw to think about for months—like pouring salt into a wound.

Despite never being asked, an answer bubbled out of his mouth before he could really consider what he was saying. Admitting.

“Guilt,” came out first, then, “Relief.”

“Okay. We can work with those.”


	17. Sansa

When Sansa got home from work, the last thing she expected to see was the table set, kitchen cleaned, and Jon Snow sitting with dinner ready.

She thought he might stay with Robb a few more days, and even if he was back, she certainly did not think he would have dinner ready. She kind of thought that she’d go downstairs to do laundry one evening and just suddenly see him back.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” Sansa said, walking in and slowly absorbing what all he’d actually done. This was a full meal—one it looked like he’d cooked from scratch. It was far more than he’d done before.

“I did. I… I didn’t know how else to apologize,” he said, standing and walking towards her. “It was super shitty, what I did.”

Sansa didn’t quite control the way her eyebrows twitched. It was shitty—she agreed—but she knew he had issues. And clearly a history of running, if Ned’s comment was anything to go by.

“Robb took me to see someone this morning. The, uh, person he’d seen after he came back from U of T and couldn’t play anymore? We talked about some stuff, and it… It helped. More than I thought it would. I’ve got another appointment to see him next week.”

“That’s good.” A smile ghosted her lips. She hadn’t realized Robb would essentially force him to see the therapist. But it was good. Because he was clearly more screwed up than she had initially thought.

And there was clearly more to his past than she remembered.

“I know you’re staying here, but you know we’re all here for you, right? Like, the boys and Mom and Dad, too. It’s not just me and Arya and Robb who want you healthy.”

If Sansa hadn’t been standing so close, if she hadn’t been staring so closely at his eyes, she probably wouldn’t have seen the way they shifted, becoming guarded, flicking away just briefly at the mention of her parents.

She’d have to call Arya and Robb. Robb had to know more than she or Arya did. He was the same age as Jon. He definitely would’ve been privy to more information than her thirteen-year-old self, or Arya’s ten.

“Yeah,” he muttered after a beat.

“Good. So. Did you actually cook all this?” she asked, her tone lightening as she moved past him to the table.

“Yeah. I dunno if it’s any good. This is the most I’ve ever cooked.”

“I appreciate it, Jon.” He met her eyes briefly then, and she thought he looked almost bashful.

They ate quietly, Jon across from her at the table instead of side by side at her countertop the way they normally did.

She could tell that he wasn’t thrilled with how it all turned out—it was edible, but the chicken was a little dry and the sides a little salty. She wanted to reach out and tap his foot, his leg, pull him from inside his head but she didn’t know how.

After dinner, Jon tried to take care of everything, but she beat him to loading the dishwasher.

Sansa wasn’t sure what Jon would do after that—if he would stay upstairs or if he would disappear downstairs immediately.

She turned her back to him to start packing her lunch for tomorrow when she heard the floorboard right by the basement stairs squeak. She knew, instantly, that meant he would be vanishing back into the basement.

A part of her wished she had a spare bedroom instead of her basement apartment because it would be far easier for her to check in on him without trying to manufacture reasons for going into the basement or hoping he’d come up.

Sansa went to put her lunch in the fridge and was started by Jon still standing there, just before the stairs.

“Seven hells! I thought you went downstairs.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, glancing behind him and yet taking a step forward. “I, um. Wanted to say thank you. For letting me stay. Again. I mi—Your place is way more comfortable,” Jon said quietly.

“Of course, Jon.”

Sansa wanted to hug him. She had no idea what happened that sent him to Robb’s or what he talked about with the therapist, but she wanted to wrap her arms around him and never let go.

He hesitated for just a few seconds more, almost like he knew what she was thinking and was giving her time to approach.

Except just when she made up her mind to step forward, Jon turned and went downstairs.

* * *

A few hours later, Sansa was curled up in bed on a video call with Robb and Arya.

“How’d he do?” Arya asked.

“Quiet, but fine. He said talking to the therapist helped and he was going back last week.”

“Good.”

“Did he tell you much else?” Robb’s voice came over. He was terrible about actually keeping his face in frame when they video chatted.

“No, not really.”

“How’d his dinner turn out?”

“Dinner?” Arya questioned; her face was suddenly way closer than it needed to be.

“How’d you know?”

“I took him to the grocery store before dropping him off. How did you think he knew that lemon pepper chicken was your favorite?”

“HUH. Interesting. Considering Jon texted me last Friday to ask what your favorite snack foods are.” Arya’s wiggling eyebrows were the only things Sansa could see.

“I’ve been cooking dinner for him,” Sansa shrugged, as if that was the same thing as him actively trying to include her favorite foods.

“UH HUH.”

Robb picked his phone, looked flatly at the camera, and set his phone back where ever it was.

“It was fine,” Sansa acknowledged when she realized she hadn’t answered Robb’s original question. “Robb, you said you didn’t remember Jon running away when you were in high school? I can’t get Dad’s comment out of my head.”

“I’m pretty sure he’d sneak out sometimes. Definitely came back after curfew, but I can’t imagine Dad thinking of that as running away. Not enough to bring it up now. I think he and Dad did have a blow out, though, senior year.”

“A blow out? Over what?”

“UCB, I think. I don’t think Dad wanted him to go.”

“Why? He had a full ride.”

“No idea. Jon and I didn’t really talk about anything other than football and girls when we were kids.”

They talked a little bit longer, but the conversation shifted away from Jon and more about Arya’s classes and all the details about giving birth Robb was learning at their birthing class. Sansa couldn’t believe how little he paid attention in freshman health.

* * *

The next few days passed uneventfully, with Sansa seeing Jon briefly in the morning before they both left and then for dinner. He still ate with her and tried to at least get dinner started before she got home most nights, which she appreciated. The only thing that was different was how he would sort of hang around the kitchen for a few minutes after they finished cleaning before he would inevitably go downstairs.

Sansa had no idea what he wanted—an invitation to stay upstairs or something else. It confused her more than anything. She thought it felt like he was trying to reach out, to ask for something, but she just could not understand what he wanted her to do.

* * *

Thursday morning, Sansa had slept through her alarm. It was the sound of Jon moving around in the kitchen that had woken her—nearly twenty minutes after she normally woke up. It meant she rushed through her shower and getting dressed. The only reason she remembered her coffee was because Jon had set her travel mug right next to her purse on the counter.

She completely forgot her lunch in the fridge.

* * *

It was near the end of her work day on Friday when Sansa felt the nausea claw up her throat. She just made it to the bathroom in time.

After, she was clammy and shaking and definitely unable to continue working.

Sansa washed her hands and rinsed her mouth in the sink before going out to explain that she had to leave. Her stomach rolled again by the time she made it out of the building. She couldn’t drive.

Normally, she would’ve called Arya, but she was pretty sure she was with Gendry for a long weekend thing.

She called Jon instead.

“Can you pick me up?” she asked as soon as he answered. “I think I have—” She hurled into the bush beside the parking lot.

“Text me the address,” he was saying as she put the phone back near her face. Distantly, she could hear the sound of his car starting. Jon didn’t ask any other questions—he simply stayed on the phone with her while he drove across town to her work.

“Sorry you had to leave early,” she said, sliding herself gently into the passenger’s seat.

“Don’t worry about it. How’re you feeling?” His eyes were too focused on her, not enough on the road, but Sansa only briefly noticed before she was closing her eyes against the nausea.

“I think it’s food poisoning. I tried to Google it.”

“Food poisoning? From what?”

“Do you feel sick?” she asked, squinting at him. He shook his head. “I forgot my lunch yesterday. Ate something from the cafeteria. It’s probably that.”

Sansa clutched her water bottle tightly between her thighs, willing herself not to upchuck in Jon’s car.

When they pulled in the drive, Sansa booked it up the driveway and through her house until she was kneeling in front of the toilet.

Sitting back, Sansa realized that Jon was behind her, a loose grip on her hair to keep it from swinging over her shoulders.

Which meant he just watched her throw up.

“I’m fine, you can go back to the flip,” she told him, wiping her mouth with a square of toilet paper.

“It’s fine. I’ll get your water bottle.” She hadn’t realized she’d left it in the car on her race to the bathroom.

While he was gone, she quickly knotted her hair to keep it out of the way, and glanced in the mirror long enough to realize her mascara had tracked down her cheeks. Sansa washed her face and brushed her teeth quickly, even though she was pretty sure, regardless of whether it was food poisoning or some twenty-four-hour bug, she’d probably be sleeping in the bathroom tonight.

“Here you go. Can I get you anything else?” Jon asked, reappearing in the doorway. Sansa took a small sip of the water.

“My pajamas? They’re on my bed.”

The only reason she knew Jon hesitated was because she could see his feet. She could see how he rolled back on his heels for a moment before turning toward her room. He brought them much more quickly than he had her water bottle, and shut the door behind himself after handing them to her.

Sansa changed and tossed her work clothes in the laundry basket. She thought she was feeling okay—at least better than she had been at the office or the parking lot—but the first three had seemed like they were somewhere between twenty minutes and a half hour apart, so she had a brief respite.

When she opened the door, Jon was sitting against the wall across from it.

“I’m pretty sure it’s just food poisoning,” she told him, but she sat in the doorframe all the same. He shrugged.

“It’s the least I can do,” he murmured after a few moments of silence.

“You don’t owe me anything, Jon.”

He looked at her, staring into her eyes like he was trying to communicate something. Sansa wanted to hold his gaze, to understand what he was saying, but she shifted her eyes away first. There had been a vulnerability in his eyes that she was unprepared to deal with. Especially in her current state. And she had felt too warm with his eyes so heavy on her.

“How’s the flip going?” she asked when she couldn’t bear how exposed his look made her feel.

“I think I like swinging a sledgehammer more than I should,” Jon admitted. If Sansa was feeling like herself, she would have laughed at the stories he told of the flip, of working with Robb and the rest of the crew, and of the few hours Jeyne had showed up to work on design.

It almost distracted her from the fact they were sitting on the floor just outside the bathroom until she had to rush back over to the toilet, scrambling to get the lid up in time.

* * *

Sansa hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep until she woke up on the bathroom floor. She didn’t feel nauseated this time—just a little clammy and tired. She expected to feel sore, given that she had apparently slept on the bathroom floor, but to her surprise she found a pillow under her head and a blanket draped across her.

When she sat up, she could just see from the glow of the nightlight the form of Jon’s body, propped against the tub only a few feet from her, sleeping with his head against the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My outline's blown to shit at this point aside from a few key scenes I know have to go somewhere so this'll be fun while I try to figure out an authentic pace and everything


	18. Jon

Last week, when Jon was in Dr. Mormont’s office, his nerves revealed themselves through his leg bouncing. This time he was pacing. He had managed to sit still for all of two minutes before he found himself up and wandering the office space.

Dr. Mormont hadn’t said a word yet.

Jon hadn’t actually been looking at anything on the walls or the shelves until he saw the team photo framed between degrees.

“Did you play?” he asked instantly, peering at the image and looking for a college aged Mormont. He could tell by the uniforms that it was UCB.

“For a little while, just in school. I was never very good at it.”

Jon turned at that.

“But you played anyway?”

“I loved the game. I loved my teammates. It wasn’t about minutes on the field or completed plays for me.”

That struck him as odd—that this man had loved a game he wasn’t good at. He couldn’t wrap his head around it.

“Is that why you played, Jon? Your love of the game?”

He opened his mouth, but then he turned back to the photo. Jon knew what he looked like in every team and solo shot he’d ever done, even from elementary school. Grim, solemn. Serious. He had never once grinned at the camera the way some of these men did.

“No.”

He looked at the picture again, but then found himself winding his way back around to the chair he’d sat in last time.

“You seem more nervous this time. Normally this is how people act on their first visit,” Mormont commented once he’d settled.

“My roommate was sick this weekend. Flu or food poisoning or something. She spent most of Friday evening around the toilet.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is she feeling better?”

Jon shrugged. He had tried his best to look after her, bringing her water and crackers and trying to take care of her the way she took care of him. Even so, he had felt useless. There was nothing he could do to make her feel better.

But the few times he had managed to bring her something before she asked, she had looked at him with such gentle surprise. That look had warmed him. Kept him hovering around her all weekend, hoping to do something right and get that look again.

“She went to work this morning, but said she’d text if she didn’t feel well.”

“Has she texted?”

Jon’s phone was on vibrate. He had kept the volume off on this phone since coming North because his calls and texts were never important but he’d turned it up when Sansa had joined him in the kitchen dressed for work this morning.

“No.”

Mormont studied him for a moment and Jon’s eyes found the team photo on the wall again.

“So. You don’t love football?” Mormont asked after a few too many beats of silence.

“I loved that I was good at it,” Jon said, more honestly than he intended. “It… I only joined as a kid because it was the only program that met every day after school and on weekends. The ladies in the office suggested it after my mom was late to pick me up one too many times,” he recalled.

“But you made a career out of it?”

 _I had to_ , Jon almost said.

“Ned played in college too,” he said instead.

“Did he?”

“Yeah, but he wasn’t good enough to get drafted. Won a few championships though, between high school and college.”

“Is that what made you want to continue?”

Jon paused.

How did he explain how deeply football had sank its claws into all aspects of his life? It defined and controlled his relationships with everyone: his mother, the Starks, women.

“Well, you knew what happened to Robb, with his shoulder,” Jon stated, as if that were an answer to the question he had been asked.

“I do, yes. I’m not sure what Ned’s or Robb’s football careers—or lack thereof—have to do with yours, though.”

 _Don’t you_? Jon wanted to snap.

“The first time I went to summer camp was after eighth grade. It was a football clinic. One you had to be invited to. It was a big deal. Especially since Robb and I both got invited—usually kids from the same schools didn’t. It was rare. And expensive…” Jon trailed off, remembering getting the invitation and the excitement that came.

And the immediate disappointment that followed when he got to the bottom of the letter where the price for the camp was.

“Ned paid for it though. For both of us to go. As long as my mom signed the slip.”

“That sounds like it was a great opportunity for you.”

Jon’s leg started bouncing again, his skin itching with his need to move.

“She worked a lot. I hadn’t gotten around to asking her by the time the deadline came up because she was always too busy or too tired or someone had been a dick at one of her jobs. I asked Ned to sign instead. Said he couldn’t ‘cause he wasn’t my parent. But he talked to the coach, and they went to talk to my mom.

“I remember coming home from a summer training session and she had the form signed and ready to go. Said Coach and Ned had come by and explained to her just how good I was. She thought they meant varsity good. Maybe college good. But then they told her I was Superbowl good. Like it was fact. Something they both _knew._ That one day I’d wear one of those rings.”

Jon grimaced as he spoke. He knew this story made everyone look bad. His mom, for working too much to know how good he had been. Ned, for pushing his mom into signing the form. But he knew they all wanted was him to be happy.

Back then, happiness was synonymous with playing.

“What’s it synonymous with now?”

It took Jon nearly a full minute to realize he’d said the last sentence out loud.

 _Sansa_ was what his gut instantly replied with.

He couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.

“Dunno yet.”

“You said last week that you felt guilt and relief about not being able to play anymore. I’m guessing a lot both of those emotions are wrapped up in the situation with your mom and the Starks. Would that be corrected?”

Jon focused on a point on the floor but nodded.

“But your roommate—she’s a Stark, right?”

“Well, yeah, but—” _That’s different. She’s different,_ he almost said. “She and I weren’t close before I left. And she has nothing to do with football.”

Even though she watched all of his games, or at least she’d said as much, he didn’t associate Sansa with football. He might have vaguely recalled seeing her at a few high school games, after she mentioned it, but that was it. She wasn’t deeply ingrained with it the way Robb and Ned were.

Even Arya and the younger boys would play in the backyard sometimes. Sansa, and Catelyn, were the only Starks that had never really joined them.

“So, would it be accurate to say she’s one of your few relationships that is completely divorced from football?”

“Well, I’ve only gotten close to her because of my knee, but… Yeah.” _The_ only relationship he thought might be slightly more accurate.

“Jon, I want you to do some homework before we meet again next week. We both know football has been your life from a very young age. Your goals, your relationships, it was all defined by football. And we clearly have a lot of history to unpack, but I also want you to consider your future, now that football isn’t an option. I want you to think about, if money and time weren’t issues, where do you want your life to go? Not just a job or career, but socially, romantically, emotionally.”

Jon’s first thought, again, was that encounter he had in the grocery store the first night he cooked for Sansa. That warm feeling he’d had at the idea of a home, a family, a wife.

The career was what stumped him. He had told Sansa he loved swinging the sledge hammer a little too much, which was true. Demo was the most fun he had in a long time. But the last thing he wanted was another handout from the Stark family.

Especially when he was still paying them back for the first.

* * *

At the flip, Robb found him at lunch, still working to make up for the time he’d lost at his appointment with Mormont.

“Take a break. Have something to eat,” Robb said, nearly taking the hammer from his hands. Jon sighed, but put it down. He’d been hoping to get the old basement walls completely down before breaking, especially since he had also left early on Friday. “How was the appointment?”

“Good. I’ve made it a standing one, so I’ll be late every Monday, if that’s okay.”

“Course it is.”

They ate quietly for a few minutes, Robb sandwich from the deli a few blocks away and Jon leftovers from dinner a few nights ago.

“So, Jeyne’s due in a month and a half. We were thinking of having a cook out at Mom and Dad’s, maybe after the baby’s born. You’ll come, right?”

 _Absolutely not,_ Jon thought initially. He had successfully avoided a confrontation with Ned so far and he wanted to keep it that way.

Putting him and all the Starks in the same place, especially if you add in beer or any alcohol, was not going to end well.

Jon knew that.

He must’ve taken too long to answer because Robb looked up at him.

“Okay, that was phrased as a question, but it isn’t. You’re coming. You can either show up willingly with Sansa, or Arya and I will come over and _put_ you in the car.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“We’ll get Gendry if we need to. But you have a month to prepare, so hopefully it won’t come to that.”

“Right.” Jon had to fight to keep his voice from sounding too sarcastic.

“It’ll just be us. You’ll be fine.”

He nodded, as if that statement was perfectly accurate. As if he wasn’t terrified of Ned.

Of the second round of the fight they’d had his senior year of high school, when his offer from UCB and acceptance to U of T came.

* * *

That evening, Jon made something light and easy for dinner. Sansa had texted him during her lunch to tell him that she felt fine but didn’t have much of an appetite yet. He tried not to be concerned about that—she’d eaten crackers, toast, and maybe a grilled cheese over the weekend. He thought she should be starving by now.

She seemed fine, and ate a normal amount though. She definitely had her color back. Even so, Jon didn’t let her help clean the kitchen afterwards.

He was just feeding the dish towel through the oven handle when he heard Sansa pad quietly back into the kitchen. She had gone to change and take her make up off, she had said.

When Jon turned around, he—for some inexplicable reason—was struck by how soft she looked in sweats and a hoodie, fresh faced and hair loose.

It made him want to try the movie night thing again.

It made him want to curl up with her on the sofa.

“We never finished that movie,” he said, stupidly, because he was entranced by the way the hoodie she wore hid her fingers.

“No, we didn’t. Did… Did you want to finish it?”

“Kinda.”

Sansa studied him, and a few weeks ago, Jon might have cowed under her blue eyes, but he stood strong.

“Okay. I was just gonna make some hot chocolate. Do you want one?”

“I can do it, if you want to get the movie pulled up.”

Sansa nodded, and she gave him that look he’d been striving to get all weekend. The one he craved.

She gave it to him again when he brought her the mug in the living room, and sat with his own only a cushion away.

“I don’t remember where we left off, do you?” she asked.

“No. But I don’t mind starting from the beginning. If you don’t.

“Not at all.”

Sansa pressed play, and curled into her spot. Jon felt her feet on the cushion between them. He adjusted his leg so that they just touched.

This. This is what he imagined when Mormont asked him what happiness was synonymous with now.


	19. Sansa

As soon as she started the movie, Sansa remembered where she had fell asleep. She was pretty sure it was only the last half hour or so that they hadn’t seen, of the two-hour movie, but she didn’t say anything to Jon. Especially not after he moved his leg to touch her foot.

It was because she remembered most of the movie that she let her attention drift. Instead of focusing on the movie, she focused on Jon beside her. On how he reacted to the movie, how he laughed at the light parts and tensed when things were awkward.

She cradled and sipped the hot chocolate, feeling like herself for the first time since work last Friday.

* * *

When the movie ended, Jon stood and stretched and it took everything in Sansa to not stare at the strip of stomach that was exposed. Or the thin trail of hair she could see.

It didn’t help that he groaned as he stretched, his arms above his head and arching his back.

She was finally able to push that dizziness she felt at hearing that down when he winced and rubbed his shoulder.

“You look like you’re due for another massage,” she offered. The way his eyes cut to hers brought the dizziness back. But then she looked at her watch. “Maybe tomorrow night?”

“Okay.”

“I have a heating pad, though, you could use tonight. If you want.”

“That’s okay. It’s not too bad.”

“You sure?”

Jon looked at her again, and in the dim light, Sansa thought his eyes looked darker than normal. Something about his face looked different, too. She could see almost a hesitancy and she suddenly wondered if she had somehow asked a different question.

“No, no, I’m not sure. But I’ll let you know if I need it.” His voice was softer but also gruffer than she expected.

“Okay.”

Sansa turned the TV off that left them almost entirely in the dark. She could just see his silhouette, nothing more.

She knew she had to get up, get ready for bed. It was later than she normally stayed up on a work night, but Jon wasn’t moving so neither did she. In the light from over the kitchen sink, she could just see Jon turn towards the kitchen.

“It’s late,” he murmured. “I’ll let you get to bed.” He moved then, the long way around the sofa so he had to pass her side. He paused beside her, and he was too shadowed for Sansa to see his face. But she could feel his eyes. “Good night.”

The back of his hand brushed where her elbow was on the arm of the sofa. Once, twice.

Three times.

“Good night,” she whispered. She had to, because she didn’t have a voice anymore.

* * *

Sansa was on her lunch break when her phone vibrated the next day. She thought it was maybe Jon checking in, because he’d been doing that now, but it was Arya.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Are you feeling better?”

“I—um. Yeah. I’m fine. How’d you know I was sick?” Sansa asked. She hadn’t told Arya that she’d gotten sick. Though, she had called Jon to get her while he was at work and he had probably told Robb. She figured it must’ve just made its way around the way everything did in their family.

“Jon called Friday night. He was trying to figure out how to help. I meant to call yesterday, but I got distracted.”

“Jon called you?”

She didn’t remember that. She hadn’t thought she’d been too out of it at any point, but she also fell asleep on the bathroom floor, so.

“Yeah, he was a little freaked out. Wanted to make sure he was doing everything he could.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that. I think it was just food poisoning or something.”

“Good. I figured it couldn’t’ve been too bad when he didn’t call again.”

“Yeah, no, he took good care of me.”

Sansa heard the innuendo, but Arya either didn’t or wasn’t feeling good herself because she didn’t comment.

“That’s good. Well, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, hold on.” Sansa could hear someone on Arya’s side talking. “Yeah, I’ll tell her. Mom said she found a box of your stuff from Dad’s old office.”

“My stuff? How’d it end up in the office?”

“No idea.”

“Okay. Well, I can swing by and pick it up on my way home.”

“I’ll let Mom know. I’ll have one of the boys move it down by the door.”

“Thanks.”

“Yep.”

* * *

When Sansa arrived at her parents’ after work, she found not one box but three. When she officially moved out and into her house, she thought she had gotten just about everything out. She knew there had been some childhood stuff, and there were totes of stuff in the basement that her parents were saving as keepsakes for her own children, but she definitely didn’t think she had three boxes worth of stuff left in the house.

Sansa hauled the boxes into her car without seeing anyone. She figured they were all working on the renovations upstairs or out, so she didn’t bother doing anything more than just picking up the boxes and heading home.

Jon was in the kitchen when she came in with the first box.

“What’s that?”

“Stuff I had left at the house, apparently. There’re two more boxes. Would you mind helping me bring them in?”

“Sure.”

Sansa dropped the first one in the living room before she met Jon by her car to get the others.

“I can start dinner, if you wanted to go through these,” he offered, putting his box down beside the other two.

“Um, yeah, okay. Thanks.”

Jon had just turned on the oven when she remembered what Arya had said on the phone.

“Thanks, by the way. For calling Arya.”

She had already been looking at him, so she saw how his back straightened and he turned slowly.

“She told you?” he grimaced.

“I asked how she knew I was sick when she called to see if I was okay. It’s okay. I… I thought it was sweet.”

“Oh.” Even from the living room she could see how his face colored. “Um. Well… You’re welcome, then.”

Sansa opened the first box so she could hide the smile she felt growing at his blushing.

Inside, she found it was mostly old school things. Annotated novels from her literature classes, binders full of history notes, a couple textbooks from college. She wasn’t sure how it ended up in the old office, but if it was there, it made sense that they didn’t get packed with all of her stuff from her old room when she bought the house.

This box wasn’t even full, so she couldn’t imagine what was in the other two.

Unlike the first one, the second one was taped shut. The other had the flaps folded together so it stayed shut. And this one Sansa thought looked older. It was dustier, that was for sure.

As soon as it was open, Sansa realized she must’ve taken the wrong box. This one looked like it must have been stuff that was in Ned’s desk. It seemed like it was mostly letters and paperwork.

She shifted through it, just to see if there was anything of hers, before opening the second box.

This one was definitely not hers. There were a few more letters in there, but there was also a pair of cleats, a half-deflated football, some old hoodies and warm ups from Winterfell High, and a letterman jacket.

This was not a box of her things.

This was a box of Jon’s things.

And they were nearly all football related.

But this couldn’t be Jon’s, even if the letterman jacket said Snow and not Stark, because the letter that was on top of all of the rest of the stuff was from U of T, where Robb went, not Jon. The other letter, though, was from UCB.

She didn’t mean to pry. She just wanted to know if this was Jon’s or Robb’s or a mix of both.

So, she unfolded the letters, just to see who they were addressed to.

The UCB one was addressed to Jon, like she expected. Her eyes fell down the page before she could refold it. A few words caught her attention—congratulations, full ride, starting position.

She shoved the letter back into the box before she could see any more.

To Sansa’s surprise, the U of T letter also had Jon’s name at the top. It also started with congratulations. But then other words jumped out—financial aid, try-outs, walk on.

“Anything interesting?” Jon called.

“No—but I don’t think these are all mine. This one’s Dad’s, I think. And… I think this one might be yours?” she said quietly, picking it up and bringing it into the kitchen. “I… I did look through it. Just to see if it was yours or Robb’s. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he shrugged.

“Do you want me to take it downstairs, or…?”

“Um…” Jon turned to look at her and she could see his conflict playing out on his face. “What’s… What’s all in it?”

“High school stuff mostly. Your letterman jacket, some old cleats. A ball. Some hoodies. And, uh. College letters?”

“Right. I’ll take it to the donation center tomorrow.”

“Donation? All of it? The hoodies and cleats, sure, but your jacket?”

“I’m never going to wear it.”

“But…” Sansa trailed off. What was she going to say? What about the memories? She knew Catelyn had Robb’s jacket in a special box to save for his kids. She’d done the same thing with Arya’s as well.

But Jon didn’t have a mother to save his things. Instead, she pulled the jacket out of the box while he put the chicken in the oven and stuffed it in her own. If he really wanted to donate it, he could. When he was better.

“What about the letters? There’s a UCB one and a U of T one.”

“I’ll take care of ‘em.”

Sansa didn’t push it and she set the box, minus the jacket, at the top of the stairs.

* * *

After dinner, Sansa managed to get out the deep tissue massager without blushing, but when she sat across his legs, her face burned.

So did his skin, when she set her palm against it to feel for knots.

Once his back was red and the muscles softened, Sansa put the massager down.

His breathing was soft and even. She thought he might be falling asleep, so she didn’t move, just kept rubbing his back lightly with her hands.

After a few minutes, she stopped, thinking he was actually asleep.

“Wait, don’t,” he murmured. “That felt good.”

“Okay,” she whispered, and pushed her palms gently from the waistband of his jeans to the base of his neck.

* * *

Later, in bed, she called Arya.

“Did you take three boxes when you stopped by?” Arya said in place of a normal greeting.

“Yeah. Realized the mistake once I got home. I’ll drop Dad’s box back off tomorrow.”

“Dad’s?”

“The one with all the paperwork and letters?”

“It’s not Dad’s. The other two were both Jon’s.”

“That one’s Jon’s too?”

“That’s what Mom said. It was all stuff they pulled out of his room before they started renovating.”

“Hey, did you know Jon got into U of T too?”

“No? Why didn’t he go? I thought he and Robb would’ve loved playing together.”

“I didn’t read the letter, but it seemed like he got into the school, but not the team. Cause he got a full ride to UCB and a guaranteed spot on the team. And I guess he didn’t for U of T. Remember how Robb had that signing for them?”

“Do you think that’s what that fight was about that Robb mentioned? Dad wanted him to play with Robb?”

“But why? If he had a full ride to UCB?”

“No idea.”

Once they hung up, Sansa thought back to the first box she opened, the one she thought was from Ned’s desk. She didn’t remember seeing Jon’s name on any of the envelopes—there was a reason she thought that box was Ned’s.

Unable to sleep with that spinning in her head, Sansa got up. She just needed to double check that the box was actually Jon’s.

In the living room, she turned the light on and ripped up the tape that she’d replaced before they sat down for dinner.

The first stack of envelopes she pulled out were all addressed to Ned.

 _This can’t be Jon’s box,_ she thought. Not if they were addressed to Ned. Maybe Arya was wrong.

Sansa set those aside, and went for another stack. These weren’t addressed to Ned, but the return address was his. Return to sender was stamped across the front in red, and beneath that Sansa saw the name _Snow_.

Jon’s mom, she realized.

“Oh shit.”


End file.
